LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


THE    BELIEVING   YEARS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •   BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE    BELIEVING    YEARS 


BY 
EDMUND   LESTER   PEARSON 


Nefa  gorfc 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1911 

All  rightt  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1910, 
BY  THE  OUTLOOK  COMPANY. 

COPYRIGHT,  1911, 
BY  THE  OUTLOOK  COMPANY. 

COPYRIGHT,  1911, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 

Sej  >ip  aud  electrotyped.-  .Putlished  October,  1911. 


Norwood  Press 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


EDMUND    CARLTON    PEARSON 
(1841-1897) 

E'en  as  he  trod  that  day  to  God  so  walked  he  from  his 

birth, 
In    simpleness    and    gentleness    and    honor    and    clean 

mirth." 


223138 


NOTE 


A  NUMBER  of  the  incidents  described  in 
this  book  have  been  used  in  a  series  of 
stories  published  in  The  Outlook.  To  The 
Outlook  Company  my  thanks  are  due 
for  their  courteous  permission  to  retell 
these  stories  in  an  altered  form. 


E.  L.  P. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  MR.    COLBURN         ....  I 

II.  THE  OLD  TOWN  .         .         .         .12 

III.  MAGIC  ......  26 

IV.  NAPOLEON  JONES          ...  40 
V.  A  RUN  ON  THE  BANK           .         .  57 

VI.  HORACE 71 

VII.  THE  GREAT  DAY           ...  82 

VIII.  THE  GREEN  CHEST       ...  98 

IX.  WHITE  PEACOCKS          .         .         .113 

X.  THE  FLIGHT          ....  130 

XL  UP  LIKE  A  ROCKET      .         .         .  147 

XII.  SUSY 160 

XIII.  ARMA  PUERUMQUE  CANO      .         .  177 
XIV.  WHEN  MY  SHIP  COMES  IN           .  195 
XV.  THE  LUCKY-BUG  ....  209 
XVI.  WEST  INJY  LANE          .         .         .  223 
XVII.  THEIR        UNACCOUNTABLE       BE 
HAVIOR       .....  240 
XVIII.  THE   SIEGE   OF  AUNTIE  MERRILL  256 
XIX.  ENTERTAINING  ALICE    .         .         .  269 
XX.  WHILE  THE  EVIL  DAYS  COME  NOT  282 


THE  BELIEVING  YEARS 

CHAPTER  I 

MR.     COLBURN 

EACH  boy  in  the  school-room  had  fixed 
his  mind  on  two  objects :  the  calendar 
and  the  clock.  On  the  former  stood  out 
in  big  black  characters 

June 
20 

The  clock  pointed  to  the  hour  of  three. 
Exactly  sixty  minutes  separated  us  from 
vacation.  It  was  the  day  of  our  dreams, 
—  the  last  day  of  school. 

We  had  thought  of  it,  thought  of  it  far 
back  when  snow  still  covered  the  ground ; 
planned  for  it,  lived  in  hope  of  it.  To 
morrow  the  tyrannical  bell  should  be 


2       ,'.',;    •  •  • :  The*  Believing  •  Y.ears 

silent,  and  no  one  could  say :  "Time  to 
start  for  school !  " 

Many  forces  had  been  at  work  hurry 
ing  this  day  forward :  the  first  blades  of 
grass,  the  first  leaves  on  the  horse-chest 
nut  trees,  the  first  robin  who  ran  across  the 
grass-plots  overlooking  the  frog  pond,  the 
first  dandelion  that  gleamed  in  the  grass. 
All  were  signs  and  symbols  of  it. 

But  in  spite  of  so  many  omens,  the  day 
itself  had  been  outrageously  slow  to  arrive. 
The  robins  had  abated  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  first  few  weeks,  and  become  quieter. 
They  were  sober  householders  and  family 
men,  now.  The  golden  blossoms  of  the 
dandelions  were  transformed  into  that 
shape  in  which  they  are  useful  chiefly  to 
blow  upon  three  times  to  see  at  what 
o'clock  your  mother  wants  you.  The 
season  had  arrived  for  swimming,  —  in 
deed,  it  had  been  here  for  weeks,  —  Ed 
Mason  and  Rob  Currier  claimed  to 


Mr.  Colburn  3 

have  gone  in  swimming  at  Four  Rocks 
as  early  as  the  last  day  of  April.  The 
fish  in  Little  River  needed  our  careful 
attention.  And  in  front  of  Austin's  shop 
had  long  stood  a  sign  displaying  a  pink 
pyramid  with  a  spoon  stuck  therein, 
and  the  seductive  words  "Ice  Cream," 
a  spectacle  that  made  our  Fourth  of 
July  money  stir  uneasily  in  our  pockets. 
In  short,  all  the  elements  of  vacation 
were  here,  —  all  but  the  thing  itself. 
Each  morning  the  summons  came  at 
twenty  minutes  of  nine,  and  each  morn 
ing  we  trod  the  dismal  path.  Pencils 
squeaked,  and  slaty  smells  arose  as  the 
slates  were  covered  with  figures  and  then 
cleaned  with  damp  sponges.  The  pun 
gent  odor  of  cedar,  from  newly  sharpened 
lead-pencils,  mingled  with  the  fragrance 
of  pickled  limes,  —  smuggled  into  school 
and  eaten  contrary  to  the  orders  of  Miss 
Temple,  the  teacher.  Outside,  summer 


4  The  Believing  Years 

called  us  in  a  dozen  different  ways.  And, 
uneasy  prisoners,  we  chafed  and  wriggled 
in  our  seats. 

But,  somehow,  the  days  had  dragged 
by,  and  even  this  final  one  had  nearly 
gone.  At  the  last  moment,  when  our 
release  was  so  near  at  hand,  a  dismal 
spectre  arose  before  us  to  block  the  way. 
It  was  the  forbidding  form  of  Mr.  Col- 
burn. 

This  was  a  man  who  had  written  an 
arithmetic,  —  an  arithmetic  of  singular 
and  diabolical  ingenuity.  He  had  done 
this  thing  long  before  any  of  us  were  born, 
and  then  he  had  passed  from  the  earth. 
But  his  work  had  remained  to  annoy  us. 
Occasionally,  during  the  last  hour  of  the 
afternoon  session,  we  wrestled  with  Mr. 
Colburn,  by  request.  This  was  in  ad 
dition  to  the  regular  arithmetic  lesson  in 
the  morning. 

I    conceived    Mr.    Colburn    as    a    tall, 


Mr.  Colburn  5 

spare  man,  clad  in  brown  leather.  His 
face  was  brown  and  leathery,  too,  and  it 
was  puckered  and  sour.  In  one  hand  he 
held  his  famous  book,  —  in  the  other,  a 
big  switch.  He  was  full  of  impertinent 
curiosity,  was  Mr.  Colburn,  and  he  had 
no  manner  of  interest  in  the  things  that 
really  concerned  us. 

I  wanted  to  know  if  Ed  Mason  (whose 
seat  was  next  but  one  behind  mine) 
were  going  fishing  to-morrow  morning. 
Mr.  Colburn  wanted  to  know  if  3  fifths 
of  a  chaldron  of  coal  cost  8  dollars,  what 
is  the  whole  chaldron  worth  ? 

I  did  not  care  what  it  was  worth,  I  did 
not  know  what  a  chaldron  was,  anyway, 
—  and  I  have  never  found  out.  But  I 
saw  we  were  in  for  an  uncomfortable  hour 
as  soon  as  Miss  Temple  said : 

"Take  your  Colburn's  Arithmetics  and 
sit  up  straight  in  your  seats.  .  .  .  Robert, 
did  you  throw  that  ?  Well,  you  may  go 


6  The  Believing  Years 

and  stand  in  that  corner,  with  your  face 
to  the  wall." 

Rob  Currier  did  as  he  was  directed  with 
undisguised  delight.  By  one  skilful 
stroke  he  had  put  himself  beyond  the 
clutch  of  Mr.  Colburn.  The  rest  of  us 
looked  upon  him  with  envy,  —  if  we  had 
only  been  so  inspired  ! 

It  was  base  of  Miss  Temple  to  devote 
the  last  hour  of  school  to  Colburn's  Arith 
metic.  We  thought  regretfully  of  an 
other  teacher  we  had  once  had.  She 
would  have  read  to  us  the  adventures  of 
"The  Prince  and  the  Pauper,"  and  that 
was  altogether  better  than  fretting  us 
about  the  price  of  coal.  Never  in  my 
life  have  I  wished  to  know  the  worth  of  a 
chaldron  of  coal,  but  if  ever  I  have  such  a 
wish  doubtless  the  dealer  will  tell  me 
straight  out. 

But  that  was  not  the  way  with  the 
people  Mr.  Colburn  knew,  —  they  could 


Mr.  Colburn  7 

never  give  you  a  decent  answer  about 
anything.  If  you  asked  one  of  Mr.  Col- 
burn's  friends  the  price  of  his  horse,  he 
would  reply  that  the  horse  and  the  saddle 
together  were  worth  100  dollars,  but  the 
horse  was  worth  9  times  as  much  as  the 
saddle,  —  and  that  was  all  you  could  get 
out  of  him. 

For  my  part,  I  privately  resolved  never 
to  buy  horses  of  any  such  disagreeable 
folk,  —  a  resolution  which  I  have  faith 
fully  kept. 

Miss  Temple  must  have  observed  my 
anxiety  to  speak  with  Ed  Mason,  for  she 
promptly  called  upon  me  :  — 

"Samuel,  you  may  take  Question  61. 
Read  it." 

"  'A  man  bought  i  ton  and  4  fifths  of 
a  ton  of  fustic  for  43  dollars,  what  was 
that  a  ton  ?  '  " 

I  struggled  with  it  for  a  few  moments, 
vaguely  wondering  what  fustic  might  be, 


8  The  Believing  Years 

but  in  the  end  I  was  compelled  to  say 
that  I  did  not  know.  Jimmy  Toppan 
and  Charley  Carter  both  fell  victims  to 
the  question.  It  was  finally  answered, 
with  some  help  from  Miss  Temple,  by  Joe 
Carter.  The  answer  did  not  seem  very 
interesting  to  us,  after  it  had  been  found 
and  worked  out  on  the  blackboard. 

We  were  watching  the  clock. 

Mr.  Colburn  would  not  have  cared  for 
clocks,  —  unless,  indeed,  he  could  have 
made  up  some  hateful  question  about 
them.  He  did  not  care  for  our  fishing 
trips ;  he  had  no  interest  in  the  frog 
pond  and  its  creatures.  The  warm,  sum 
mer  day  outside  had  no  attraction  for  him. 

He  wanted  to  know  if  cloth  4  quarters 
wide  is  worth  8  dollars  a  yard,  what  is  I 
yard  of  the  same  kind  of  cloth,  that  is  5 
quarters  wide,  worth  ?  And  his  conspir 
ator,  Miss  Temple,  aided  and  abetted  him 
in  his  curiosity.  She  fired  the  questions 


Mr.  Colburn  9 

at  us  with  unremitting  vigor.  We  were 
called  upon  to  reduce  9y  to  an  improper 
fraction,  though  how  any  one  could  wish 
to  inject  into  it  any  more  impropriety 
than  it  already  seemed  to  possess,  was 
a  matter  impossible  to  understand. 

The  long  hour  wore  on.  From  outside 
came  the  drone  of  insects.  A  flock  of 
sheep  passed  the  school,  —  driven  up 
Elm  Street  by  men  who  were  probably 
hurrying  them  to  their  fate.  We  tried  to 
look  out  the  windows  and  watch  the  prog 
ress  of  the  sheep,  but  we  were  recalled  by 
Miss  Temple,  to  whom  the  incident 
suggested  nothing  except  a  chance  to 
try  upon  us  what  Mr.  Colburn  seems  to 
have  considered  his  crowning  effort. 

"A  man  driving  his  geese  to  market 
was  met  by  another,  who  said,  Good 
morrow,  master,  with  your  hundred  geese ; 
says  he,  I  have  not  a  hundred;  but  if  I 
had  half  as  many  more  as  I  now  have, 


io  The  Believing  Years 

and  two  geese  and  a  half,  I  should  have 
a  hundred;    how  many  had  he?" 

Disheartening  as  this  problem  ap 
peared,  together  with  its  inhuman  sug 
gestion  of  a  man  carrying  half  of  a  goose 
about  with  him,  it  nevertheless  proved 
useful  to  us.  Joe  Carter  and  one  or  two 
others  (who  affected  to  enjoy  Mr.  Col- 
burn)  engaged  in  a  long  wrangle  with 
each  other  and  with  Miss  Temple,  about 
the  number  of  geese  owned  by  this  pal 
pable  lunatic.  We  regarded  them,  at 
first,  with  a  pity  not  unmixed  with  loath 
ing  ;  then,  as  we  observed  how  they  were 
taking  up  the  time,  we  came  to  appre 
ciate  the  value  of  the  discussion.  Ed 
Mason  and  Jimmy  Toppan,  from  the 
depths  of  a  complete  ignorance  of  the 
subject,  managed  to  interject  one  or  two 
inquiries  that  had  the  happy  result  of 
tangling  every  one  up  still  worse,  and 
thus  prolonging  the  goose  argument. 


Mr.  Colburn  n 

To  our  great  joy  the  problem  was  still 
unsolved  at  five  minutes  of  four.  Then 
Miss  Temple  was  forced  to  bid  us  close 
the  books.  She  made  a  few  perfunctory 
remarks,  wished  us  a  pleasant  vacation, 
and,  when  a  gong  sounded  throughout 
the  building,  dismissed  the  class. 

We  filed  to  get  our  hats,  filed  down 
stairs,  through  the  hall,  and  out  the  door 
with  a  concerted  and  enthusiastic  yell. 
Mr.  Colburn  and  imprisonment  lay  be 
hind  us ;  ahead  were  vacation  and  free 
dom.  So  we  whooped  once  more,  and 
again,  until  a  scissors-grinder,  who  had 
gone  to  sleep  on  the  grass  under  a  tree, 
woke  up  with  a  start.  The  old  horse  who 
drew  Oliver's  bakery  wagon  had  been 
standing  sleepily  in  front  of  a  house  on 
the  other  side  of  Elm  Street.  At  our 
third  shout  he  ambled  clumsily  off,  while 
Mr.  Oliver,  with  a  basket  of  buns  in  his 
hand,  pursued  him  down  the  street. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    OLD    TOWN 

ELM  STREET,  into  which  we  rushed  that 
afternoon,  was  a  broad  thoroughfare  ex 
tending  from  one  end  of  the  town  to  the 
other.  On  both  sides  it  was  lined  with 
trees,  set  at  the  edge  of  the  brick  side 
walks.  Mainly  fine  tall  elms,  they  lent 
a  distinction  to  the  street  and  made  it 
notable  among  those  which  characterize 
the  older  towns  of  New  England.  In  the 
opinion  of  all  the  citizens,  Elm  Street  was 
beyond  comparison. 

Local  pride  did  not  exaggerate.  Its 
unusual  length,  its  great,  graceful  trees 
and  the  dignified  houses,  made  the  street 
undoubtedly  beautiful.  There  were 
houses  of  every  style  which  has  been  in 

12 


The  Old  Town  13 

vogue  during  two  hundred  years.  Roofs 
which  sloped  in  the  rear  nearly  to  the 
ground,  gambrel  roofs,  and  the  various 
less  attractive  fashions  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  —  all  were  there. 

But  those  of  which  the  owners  were 
most  proud,  those  best  suited  to  the 
street,  were  the  great,  square,  three- 
storied  houses,  built  in  the  early  years  of 
the  century.  That  was  the  time  of  the 
town's  prosperity,  before  a  fire  had 
checked  its  growth,  before  shifting  sands 
had  almost  closed  its  harbor.  Ships  from 
the  old  town  sailed  every  ocean  then,  and 
carried  our  flag  into  strange,  foreign 
ports.  Their  captains,  or  their  owners, 
built  many  of  the  big,  square  houses,  so 
you  could  often  see,  on  the  roof,  a  little 
railed  platform,  where  the  householder 
might  stand  of  a  morning  to  sweep  the 
harbor  and  the  ocean  with  his  spy-glass. 
Charley  Carter's  father  did  this  regu- 


14  The  Believing  Years 

larly,  although  the  ships  in  which  he  was 
interested  sailed  to  this  port  no  longer, 
if,  indeed,  they  sailed  at  all. 

The  town  was  built  along  one  bank  of 
the  river,  and  Elm  Street  followed  the 
crest  of  the  slope.  It  was  an  easy  thing, 
therefore,  for  any  one  standing  on  the 
roof  of  one  of  the  houses  to  get  a  good 
view  of  the  river,  the  salt  marshes,  the 
sand-dunes,  and  the  ocean.  The  ocean 
spread  out  there,  bright  and  clear,  from 
the  dim  blue  mountain  that  rose  on  the 
far  horizon  in  Maine,  to  the  low  hills  of 
Cape  Ann.  Sometimes,  at  night,  the 
east  wind  brought  the  rumble  of  breakers, 
or  the  booming  sound  of  a  whistling  buoy 
that  guarded  the  harbor. 

The  town  was  long  and  very  narrow. 
From  Elm  Street  you  could  look  down 
some  of  the  cross  streets  to  the  river,  and 
beyond.  On  the  other  side  of  Elm  Street, 
as  soon  as  you  had  passed  the  gardens 


The  Old  Town  15 

that  lay  behind  the  big  houses,  you  were 
almost  in  open  country.  There  were  a 
few  outlying  farms,  a  few  shanties,  and 
then  bare,  scrubby  fields,  the  Common 
Pasture,  rocky  knolls  and  clumps  of 
woods.  On  one  of  these  farms  dwelt  Mr. 
Diggery,  —  a  fierce  little  man,  of  whom 
we  went  in  terror. 

So  near  did  the  river  come  to  the  lower 
part  of  the  town  that  a  storm  often  made 
people  who  lived  in  that  quarter  need 
high  boots  to  get  across  the  street ;  while 
the  country  (unexplored  wilds  to  us  !) 
closed  up  so  near  on  the  other  side  of  Elm 
Street,  that  owls,  woodchucks,  and  an 
occasional  fox  penetrated  the  gardens. 

It  was  this  nearness  of  the  river  and 
ocean,  and  of  the  open  country,  that  made 
the  town  such  a  delightful  dwelling-place 
for  us.  Even  the  centre  of  the  town, 
the  neighborhood  where  Ed  Mason  and 
Jimmy  Toppan  lived,  and  Rob  Currier, 


1 6  The  Believing  Years 

the  two  Carters,  Horace  Winslow,  Peter 
Bailey,  and  I,  —  this  was  a  region  thick 
with  the  possibilities  of  adventure. 
Much  of  this  centred  about  the  frog  pond 
and  the  Mall.  The  pond  was  full  of 
goldfish,  and  other  humbler  fish,  and 
toads,  frogs,  and  water-beetles.  You 
were  sure  to  find  something  interesting 
whenever  you  walked  around  the  pond. 
Many  of  our  neighbors  on  Elm  Street 
owned  large  gardens,  to  which  we  had 
entrance  —  either  by  permission,  or  by 
the  informal  and  far  more  adventurous 
method  of  climbing  the  back  fence. 

The  owners  of  the  gardens,  at  that 
period,  were  mostly  elderly  persons, 
dwelling  in  great  contentment  and  the 
most  profound  quiet.  Their  lives  were 
comfortable,  well-ordered,  and  precise. 
They  lived  mainly  in  the  past.  They 
pondered  much  on  some  grandfather, 
or  great-grandfather,  who  had  built  up  a 


The  Old  Town  17 

fortune  through  foreign  trade,  and  they 
heeded  not  at  all  the  remarks  of  envious 
and  ill-natured  folk  who  liked  to  point 
out  that  one  of  the  chief  commodities  of 
this  trade  was  rum.  The  principal  hall 
mark  of  their  respectability  was  a  por 
trait  of  their  ancestor,  with  very  pink 
cheeks,  —  the  sign  of  an  outdoor  life,  and 
not  necessarily  an  indication  of  a  taste 
for  port  and  madeira. 

Beside  this  venerable  portrait  would 
hang  a  lively  representation  of  the  ship 
Sally  B.,  as  she  appeared  on  some  mem 
orable  occasion  entering  the  harbor  of 
Singapore,  and  viewed  by  one  of  those 
artists  who  invariably  happen  to  be  near 
by  when  the  ship  is  under  full  sail  and 
making  not  less  than  twelve  knots. 

It  was  a  period  not  so  very  far  removed 
from  our  own  time,  and  yet  different  from 
it  in  a  number  of  respects.  No  thump 
ing,  grinding  trolley  car  disturbed  the 


1 8  The  Believing  Years 

quiet  of  Elm  Street  that  bright  June 
afternoon.  Infrequently,  an  omnibus 
rambled  up  and  down.  By  night  the  dark 
ness  was  punctuated  here  and  there  by  a 
gas  flame  at  the  top  of  an  iron  lamp 
post.  Rob  Currier's  big  brother  Dick 
had  the  proud  privilege  of  going  about 
our  neighborhood  at  sunset,  with  a 
ladder  and  a  supply  of  matches,  to  set 
these  lamps  alight.  We  used  to  watch 
him,  and  wonder  if  we  should  ever  get 
old  enough  and  sufficiently  influential 
to  occupy  a  public  position  like  his.  But 
before  we  reached  the  required  age  and 
dignity  the  old  lamp-posts  had  been 
taken  down  in  favor  of  electric  lights. 

No  one  had  his  letters  brought  to  his 
house.  If  he  wanted  his  mail,  or  wished 
to  send  a  letter,  he  went  to  the  post- 
office.  The  nine  o'clock  parade  of  citi 
zens  making  toward  that  building  was  one 
of  the  regular  features  of  life  in  the  town. 


The  Old  Town  19 

At  nine  in  the  evening  a  church  bell  rang 
the  curfew,  —  although  it  had  absolutely 
no  significance.  It  had  always  been 
done  :  that  was  reason  sufficient  for  an 
old  and  conservative  place.  When  the 
ringer  died,  or  something  else  happened 
to  stop  its  mournful  sound,  a  well-to-do 
citizen  quickly  provided  funds  to  con 
tinue  the  ringing.  The  curfew  laws,  with 
their  reference  to  children,  had  not  come 
into  vogue,  so  the  bell  sounded  each 
evening  simply  out  of  regard  for  an  old 
custom.  Few  heard  it,  and  to  few  of 
these  did  it  make  the  slightest  difference. 
We  did  not  often  hear  foreign  tongues 
or  see  foreign  faces  on  the  streets.  Once 
in  a  while  we  might  overhear  two  old 
women,  with  shawls  over  their  heads, 
conversing  in  Irish  as  they  passed  along. 
The  Mediterranean  peoples  had  not  ar 
rived,  —  although  they  had  sent  a  pioneer 
in  the  person  of  Mr.  Mazzoni,  who  pre- 


20  The  Believing  Years 

sided  over  a  little  stand  at  the  foot  of 
Main  Street,  and  was  an  important  per 
sonage  to  us,  because  of  the  peanuts 
which  he  sold. 

The  boys  who  went  to  the  parochial 
school,  the  Pats  and  Mikes,  were  a  kind 
of  hostile  crew,  and  when  we  met  it  was 
usually  with  an  exchange  of  horse-chest 
nuts  or  snowballs.  This  was  because 
of  no  racial  or  religious  animosity,  —  we 
were  simply  two  rival  gangs,  that  was  all. 
On  one  occasion,  when  Ed  Mason  and  I 
met  a  number  of  the  parochial  school 
boys  out  in  the  country,  there  was  an 
exchange  of  epithets  that  stopped  (as 
such  meetings  did  not  always  stop)  this 
side  of  blows.  I  was  reduced  to  a  state 
of  almost  tearful  indignation  when  one 
of  the  little  Irish  boys  asserted  that  I  was 
"a  Protestant." 

I  denied  the  charge  vehemently,  but 
when  I  got  home  and  repeated  the  insult, 


The  Old  Town  21 

I  learned  that  it  was  only  too  true.  I 
had  never  suspected  it,  and  had  gone  on 
thinking  that  I  was  merely  a  Unitarian. 
Alas,  it  seemed  that  I  was  a  Protestant 
as  well. 

The  charm  and  quaintness  of  the  past 
had  by  no  means  vanished  from  the  old 
town.  Wooden  ships  were  still  built  on 
the  river,  now  and  then,  and  the  sea- 
captains  gathered  and  gossiped  in  the 
rooms  of  the  Marine  Society.  Overhead 
was  a  museum  of  curiosities  of  the  deep, 
and  of  foreign  lands.  Some  one  of  the 
captains  would  always  be  willing  to  un 
lock  the  room  for  us,  and  let  us  inspect 
the  dusty  albatross,  the  dried  flying- 
fishes,  the  little  ships  in  bottles,  and  all 
the  other  objects  of  interest. 

One  grocery  still  displayed  the  sign 
"E.  &  W.  I.  Goods,"  and  more  than  one 
citizen  walked  the  streets  in  a  beaver 
hat.  There  was  old  fat  Captain  Millett, 


22  The  Believing  Years 

who  tacked  down  Main  Street  every  morn 
ing  in  summer  under  an  enormous  green- 
lined  umbrella,  big  enough  to  shelter  a 
family.  There  was  Captain  Bannister, 
who  lived  alone  in  his  curious  little  house 
on  West  Injy  Lane,  where  he  cultivated 
a  garden  patch  of  cinnamon  pinks.  And 
there  was  Mr.  Babbitt,  the  Quaker  gen 
tleman,  who  used  to  pass  with  stately 
tread,  as  we  played  on  Elm  Street,  or 
about  the  pond.  He  was  tall  and  digni 
fied,  and  he  wore  a  high  hat  and  a  frock 
coat,  —  I  had  almost  said  a  surtout, — 
with  a  shirt  collar  so  high  and  antiquated 
that  he  seemed  to  belong  to  'the  time 
of  Martin  Van  Buren.  He  kept  on  his 
black  velvet  ear-caps  until  summer  was 
well  advanced,  and  he  put  them  on  again 
the  first  of  September.  But  he  was  the 
friend  of  a  great  poet,  and  every  one  re 
spected  him  for  that,  as  well  as  for  his 
own  character. 


The  Old  Town  23 

There  was  still  a  town  crier,  —  one  of 
the  last,  or,  as  he  claimed,  the  very  last 
one  in  this  country.  "Squawboo"  (as 
we  were  told  we  must  not  call  him),  or 
Mr.  Landford  (as  we  were  told  we  ought 
to  call  him),  walked  the  streets  with  a 
large  dinner  bell.  He  would  pause  at 
intervals,  and  ring  his  bell  vigorously. 
Then,  throwing  back  his  head,  he  would 
emit  a  volume  of  sound  which  would 
strike  the  hearer  with  astonishment.  I 
have  seen  strangers  paralyzed  with  amaze 
ment  as  they  heard  for  the  first  time,  and 
unexpectedly,  the  deep,  tremendous  tones 
that  issued  from  his  throat. 

"Hear  —  what  —  I  —  have  —  to 

—  say!"    he    would    begin.     "Grand  — 
dance  —  at  —  City  —  Hall  —  to-morrow 

—  evening  —  at  —  eight  —  o'clock.  — 
Admission  —  fifty  —  cents  —  ladies  free  ! 

—  COME,    ONE  —  COME,     EVERY 
BODY!  !" 


24  The  Believing  Years 

And  then  he  would  ring  the  bell  again, 
and  walk  on. 

I  have  stopped,  for  the  most  of  this 
chapter,  to  explain  what  kind  of  a  town 
it  was  in  which  we  passed  the  believing 
years,  the  years  which  began  with  us,  and 
continued  for  a  dozen  summers  or  so. 
But  now,  if  you  please,  we  will  return  to 
that  afternoon  when  we  dashed  out  of 
school,  and  left  Mr.  Colburn  and  Miss 
Temple  behind.  We  ran  into  a  land  of 
wonder.  The  first  thing  for  me  to  learn 
about  was  that  fishing  trip  for  to-morrow. 

I  hastily  consulted  Ed  Mason  about  it. 
No;  we  could  not  go,  it  must  be  post 
poned.  Parts  of  the  necessary  tackle 
were  missing,  and  there  were  reasons, 
connected  with  the  approaching  Fourth 
of  July,  why  neither  of  us  desired  to  make 
any  avoidable  expenditures  just  then. 

But  there  was  another  plan,  into  which 
I  might  be  admitted,  —  if  I  could  prove 
trustworthy. 


The  Old  Town  25 

"You  won't  tell  ?"  queried  Ed  Mason. 

"Course  not!" 

"Cross  your  heart  ?" 

I  crossed  my  heart  and  hoped  I  might 
die. 

But  I  could  not  know  just  then,  —  I 
must  wait  until  next  morning. 

It  was  fearful  discipline  for  the  soul,  but 
I  survived  until  after  breakfast  the  next 
day.  Then  I  presented  myself  at  the 
Masons'  side  yard,  —  their  house  was 
within  stone's  throw  of  ours. 

Ed  had,  so  I  understood,  some  mys 
terious  recipe,  —  some  ceremony  to  per 
form  that  was  not  only  extraordinary  in 
itself,  but  it  was  to  be  rewarded  in  the 
most  fascinating  manner  imaginable. 

He  came  out  of  the  house  with  a  serious 
face,  led  me  down  behind  an  apple  tree, 
and  there,  after  looking  carefully  about 
for  eavesdroppers,  unfolded  the  cryptic 
plot. 


CHAPTER  III 

MAGIC 

You  took  rose-leaves  —  fresh  rose- 
leaves  —  and  mixed  them  with  brown 
sugar.  Then  you  wrapped  them  in  a 
leaf  from  a  grape-vine,  and  buried  the 
whole  business  in  the  ground.  You  let 
them  stay  for  three  days.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  you  dug  them  up  and  ate 
them  ;  ate  them  with  rapture  known  only 
to  those  who  have  eaten  this  particular 
delicacy.  For  to  the  natural  fragrance  of 
the  rose-leaves  and  the  nourishing  and 
delicious  properties  of  brown  sugar,  that 
interval  of  three  days  in  the  warm  earth 
had  added  a  new  quality.  A  mysterious 
alchemy  had  been  at  work  and  trans 
formed  the  mixture  into  something  ex- 
26 


Magic  27 

quisite  —  a  dish  to  be  envied  by  great 
kings  and  sultans.  It  had  about  it  odors 
of  the  East ;  savors  of  Araby  the  blest. 

So  said  Ed  Mason's  older  brother, 
Billy.  And  he  was  nearly  thirteen.  He 
did  not  use  all  the  words  which  I  have 
used  to  describe  the  taste  of  the  rose-leaf 
compound.  He  had  merely  said  it  was 
"bully."  That  was  enough  for  us  — 
that,  and  the  charm  of  the  operation 
itself.  He  had  tried  it  many  times  in  the 
far-off  days  of  his  youth ;  and  now  we  set 
out  to  make  some  for  ourselves. 

The  rose-leaves  were  easy  to  get.  We 
had  only  to  climb  over  the  fence  and  we 
were  in  Auntie  Merrill's  garden.  Auntie 
Merrill  was  old,  and  she  seldom  came  into 
the  garden.  She  had  no  one  with  whom 
to  share  it;  and  the  roses  budded, 
bloomed,  and  dropped  their  petals  un 
heeded  to  the  path.  From  this  path  we 
gathered  some ;  but  it  is  likely  that  others 


28  The  Believing  Years 

were  induced,  with  little  effort,  to  leave 
the  full-blown  flowers  a  day  or  two  in 
advance  of  their  natural  fall. 

Roses  are  beautiful  things,  even  to 
boys  of  eight  or  nine,  but  aesthetic  con 
siderations  must  give  way  before  the 
stern,  practical  demands  of  life. 

We  debated  whether  red  or  yellow 
roses  were  most  likely  to  give  good  re 
sults.  At  last  we  decided  to  combine  the 
two  colors,  and  a  tempting  mixture  they 
made.  We  put  the  leaves  in  my  hat,  and 
climbed  the  fence  again  into  the  Masons' 
back  yard. 

The  next  ingredient  was  brown  sugar. 
Here,  again,  the  matter  was  simple.  A 
barrel  of  the  pleasing  substance  lived  in 
a  certain  dim  passage  leading  from  Ed 
Mason's  mother's  pantry.  It  was  dark, 
moist,  and  a  joy  forever.  It  had  the 
crawly  habit  peculiar  to  brown  sugar,  and 
it  came  away  (when  questing  hands  were 


Magic  29 

plunged  into  the  barrel)  in  lumps  that 
filled  the  mouth  and  turned  the  cares 
of  life  to  vanity  and  unimportance.  With 
it,  during  hard  days,  we  frequently  re 
stored  our  wasted  tissues. 

The  rose-leaves  were  left  to  themselves 
while  we  made  a  reconnaissance  in  force 
toward  the  place  of  the  sugar  barrel. 
The  enemy  (one  Nora  Sullivan,  a  desper 
ate  character)  was  reported  as  engaged 
in  washing  dishes  in  the  kitchen.  She 
neglected  to  station  any  outposts,  so  her 
carelessness  wras  our  advantage. 

We  made  the  customary  investigation 
for  a  large  gray  rat  —  supposed,  since  a 
time  to  which  the  mind  of  man  runneth 
not  back,  to  dwell  behind  the  barrel.  As 
usual,  he  was  found  missing. 

We  seized  the  sugar  and  retired  in 
discretion  and  stickiness  to  the  yard. 
There  we  mixed  the  rose-leaves  and  the 
sugar.  From  the  vine  that  grew  on  the 


30  The  Believing  Years 

side  of  the  woodshed  we  picked  a  large 
leaf.  This  was  the  vine  that  furnished 
leaves  to  be  worn  inside  our  hats  to  pre 
vent  sunstroke  on  hot  days. 

No  one  knows  how  many  sunstrokes 
we  escaped  by  means  of  those  grape 
leaves. 

We  wrapped  the  red  and  yellow  petals, 
well  covered  with  sugar,  in  the  grape  leaf, 
and  secured  it  with  straws  and  blades 
of  grass.  No  creeping  worm  nor  brisk 
beetle  was  to  partake  of  this  food  of  the 
gods. 

Next  came  the  rite  of  burial.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  the  leaf  and  its  contents 
must  be  buried  in  Auntie  Merrill's  garden. 
That  was  the  scene  of  all  mysteries,  and 
the  only  place  where  our  cache  would  be 
reasonably  secure  from  Ed  Mason's  sister 
Louise  and  her  friend  Jessie  Plummer. 
These  were  high  matters,  too  great  for 
the  feminine  intellect.  Also,  of  course, 


Magic  31 

we  had  Auntie  Merrill  to  consider.  A 
place  must  be  discovered  where  she 
would  not  come  poking  around. 

"Back  of  the  lilies-of-the-valley,"  said 
Ed  Mason.  ' 

"It's  kind  of  wet  there,"  I  objected. 

"What  difrence  does  that  make?" 

"Well,  it  might  not  work  there.  I  tell 
you :  let's  put  'em  in  the  corner,  near 
Hawkins'  shed." 

"No;  I  want  'em  back  of  the  lilies-of- 
the-valley.  It's  my  mother's  brown 
sugar,  and  Billy  told  me  how  to  do  it. 
You  wouldn't  know  anything  'bout  it  if 
I  hadn't  told  you!" 

I  succumbed  to  the  force  of  this  argu 
ment,  and  we  began  to  excavate  back 
of  the'  lily  bed.  With  shingles  (procured 
from  men  who  were  shingling  Dr.  Macey's 
barn)  we  dug  the  pit  and  covered  the 
grape  leaf  with  earth.  Then,  after  driv 
ing  away  a  prowling  cat  (who  probably 


32  The  Believing  Years 

recollected  funeral  services  performed  over 
deceased  robins  in  that  very  garden),  we 
climbed  the  fence  once  more  and  set  out 
to  endure  the  weary  interval  of  three 
days. 

It  was  Saturday  morning,  and  ten 
o'clock.  Not  until  Tuesday  at  the  same 
hour  could  we  unearth  the  treasure. 

Billy  had  said  so. 

Three  days  were  required,  no  more  and 
no  less.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  to  the 
minute,  the  magic  forces  that  dwelt  in 
the  earth  would  have  effected  the  change, 
and  what  we  buried  as  simple  brown  sugar 
and  the  petals  of  roses  would  come  forth 
in  a  new  form  —  a  form  to  make  epicures 
sigh  with  content. 

We  walked  up  the  yard,  by  the  wood 
shed,  past  the  apple  tree  and  the  clothes- 
jack,  and  out  to  the  street.  But  some 
thing  had  happened.  A  thick  black  cloud 
had  descended  and  covered  us.  A  few 


Magic  33 

minutes  before,  the  sun  was  shining 
gloriously,  and  we  stood  on  the  moun 
tain  peak  of  action  and  expectancy. 
Now  it  had  all  come  to  an  end ;  the  rose- 
leaves  were  buried,  and  before  us  in  all 
their  hideous  length  and  tediousness 
stretched  those  three  days. 

Three  days  ! 

Three  years  rather  !  The  face  of  the 
heavens  was  darkened  and  we  wandered 
in  gloom.  We  made  an  effort  of  cheer 
fulness  and  started  for  the  pond  with  a 
view  to  catching  Lucky-bugs.  But  we 
abandoned  this  almost  immediately,  and 
decided  to  hunt  up  Jimmy  Toppan,  who 
lived  next  door.  Then  we  remembered 
that  Jimmy  had  gone  to  his  grandmother's 
farm  in  the  country  for  the  whole  day. 
By  this  time  the  pall  that  overhung  us 
had  become  deeper  and  more  insufferable. 

We  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  and 
gazed  drearily  at  Dr.  Macey's  barn  and 


34  The  Believing  Years 

the  men  at  work  on  its  roof.  The  old 
shingles  were  coming  down  with  a  clatter, 
and  the  odor  of  the  new  ones  filled  the 
air. 

Perhaps  there  was  hope  in  shingles  ! 

We  remembered  that  it  takes  but  few 
strokes  of  a  jack-knife,  a  little  cutting  and 
boring,  to  convert  a  shingle  into  a  boat. 
It  only  needs  pointing  at  the  bows  and 
rounding  at  the  stern,  the  insertion  of  a 
mast  and  the  fitting  of  a  paper  sail  — 
half  an  old  envelope  will  do.  The  boats 
thus  fashioned  would  sail  half  across  the 
pond  —  until  stuck  in  the  lily-pads. 

We  chose  two  shingles  and  began  to 
whittle.  But  there  was  no  salt  in  it. 
Our  minds  wandered,  and  after  a  few 
moments  Ed  dropped  his  shingle,  closed 
his  knife,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"I'm  goin'  into  the  barn  an'  look  for 
mice,"  he  announced. 

About  the  chutes  which  let  grain  into 


Magic  35 

the  stalls,  mice  were  known  to  linger. 
Once  I  had  caught  one  in  my  hands,  a 
feat  which  I  instantly  regretted,  for  the 
mouse  bit  my  finger  and  made  his  escape 
in  short  order.  Since  that  time  the  pur 
suit  of  the  common  drab  mouse  had  been 
considered  a  pastime  not  without  the 
charm  of  danger  and  the  risk  of  blood 
shed.  But  now  the  mention  of  mice 
only  brought  my  thoughts  back  —  as  if 
they  needed  bringing  !  —  to  the  subject 
that  possessed  us  both. 

"Do  you  think  you  drove  that  old  cat 
away?"  I  asked  abruptly. 

Ed  understood  immediately ;  I  did  not 
need  to  specify  the  cat. 

"  I  dunno,"  he  said ;  "  she  may  be  foolin' 
round  now.  P'r'aps  we  ought  to  go  and 


see." 


"Let's,"  I  replied  quickly. 
We  crossed  the  street,  cut  across  the 
Toppans'  back  yard,  and  then,  by  a  cer- 


36  The  Believing  Years 

tain  fence  route,  well  understood  and  pre 
scribed  for  all  important  occasions,  entered 
Auntie  Merrill's  garden. 

A  cat  slunk  off  between  the  box  hedges, 
and  a  robin  flew  hurriedly  from  the  fence 
to  the  apple  tree  where  he  had  his  nest 
of  mud  and  dried  grass.  He  uttered  three 
or  four  excited  notes  as  he  flewr. 

The  sunlight  of  a  morning  in  late  June 
fell  in  patches  on  the  paths,  the  hedges, 
and  the  flower  beds.  The  rose-bushes 
dropped  their  petals,  and  the  syringa 
moved  in  the  breeze. 

That  was  a  garden  ! 

It  had  old-fashioned  flowers  —  snap 
dragons,  portulacas  (now  in  full  blaze  in 
the  sun),  and  hollyhocks  —  in  the  days 
before  old-fashioned  flowers  became  new- 
fashioned  again.  Orioles  hunted  their 
food  in  the  fruit  trees  to  carry  it  back 
to  their  hanging  nests  in  the  elms  that 
shaded  the  street  near  by.  It  was  firefly- 


Magic  37 

haunted  at  night,  and  we  used  to  run  up 
and  down  the  paths  and  try  to  catch  the 
fireflies  in  our  hats.  It  was  full  of  long, 
mysterious  vistas,  overgrown  shrubs  break 
ing  in  on  the  paths,  and  valuable  hiding- 
places.  Plums  grew  there,  and  pears  and 
cherries  and  peaches. 

When,  on  rare  occasions,  Auntie  Mer 
rill  walked  slowly  down  the  path,  she 
appeared  to  be  totally  unaware  that 
Indians,  highway  robbers,  pirates,  cow 
boys,  spies,  scouts,  and  other  ruffians 
were  dogging  her  footsteps  from  bush  to 
bush.  We  always  thought  it  best  to  keep 
an  eye  on  her. 

It  is  a  perfectly  safe  place  to-day. 
Auntie  Merrill  is  dead;  the  shrubs  are 
trimmed,  the  hedges  cut  down,  the  paths 
covered  with  asphalt,  and  the  whole  gar 
den  a  dismal  spectacle  of  precision,  order, 
and  expensive  simplicity. 

But  on  the  morning  when  we  returned 


38  THe  Believing  Years 

to  look  after  our  buried  rose-leaves,  no 
one  had  dreamed  of  these  wretched  im 
provements.  Keeping  well  down  below 
the  hedge,  we  reached  the  lilies-of-the- 
valley  without  encountering  any  opposi 
tion.  The  place  of  burial  was  inspected 
and  the  earth  searched  for  tracks. 

None  appeared. 

Then  we  stood  over  the  spot  and  medi 
tated.  A  lilac  bush  sheltered  us  from 
inquisitive  persons  in  the  house. 

Finally  Ed  Mason  spoke. 

"I  wonder  how  they're  gettin'  on,"  he 
said. 

"I  wonder!"  said  I. 

Then  there  was  another  pause.  I 
poked  my  foot  among  the  lilies  where  we 
had  concealed  the  shingles  we  had  used 
as  trowels.  They  were  waiting  for  Tues 
day  morning. 

Ed  spoke  again. 

"Let's  dig  'em  up  and  look  at  'em  !" 


Magic  39 

Already  I  was  fishing  for  the  shingles. 
In  half  a  minute  we  had  brought  the 
grape  leaf  once  more  to  the  light  of  day. 
We  unfastened  it  and  gazed  upon  its  con 
tents. 

It  was  a  quarter  past  ten.  Fifteen 
minutes  had  passed  since  we  buried  the 
mixture. 

"Don't  you  suppose  they're  done?"  I 
queried. 

Ed's  only  reply  was  to  take  a  pinch 
between  his  fingers  and  convey  it  to  his 
mouth. 

I  did  the  same. 

Then  we  ate  the  whole  lot.  It  tasted 
—  and  on  this  point  I  will  pledge  my 
word  —  it  tasted  exactly  like  rose-leaves 
and  brown  sugar ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

NAPOLEON    JONES 

ON  an  afternoon  early  in  the  following 
week,  Jimmy  Toppan,  Ed  Mason,  and  I 
were  seriously  engaged  at  the  frog  pond. 
We  had  discovered,  in  the  morning,  an 
outlet,  through  which  all  the  water  was  in 
danger  of  escaping.  The  town  authori 
ties  seemed  to  have  overlooked  this 
channel,  but  we  could  not  let  their  neglect 
cause  public  suffering. 

To  have  the  pond  run  dry  was  too 
serious  to  contemplate  ! 

"The  water  wouldn't  all  go  out,"  as 
serted  Ed  Mason,  "'cos  there's  a  place, 
back  of  the  Court  House,  where  there 
ain't  any  bottom." 

40 


Napoleon  Jones  41 

"That  ain't  in  this  pond,"  Jimmy  cor 
rected,  "it's  over  in  Davenport's." 

But  Ed  stuck  to  his  opinion. 

"It  is  here.  An'  there  was  a  volcano 
here  once,  an'  when  the  volcano  dried 
up,  the  pond  came." 

We  looked  with  considerable  interest 
toward  the  site  of  the  extinct  crater. 
But  all  was  placid  blue  water  now,  and 
whatever  might  be  concealed  beneath  the 
surface  remained  a  secret. 

Our  duty  was  not  the  less  clear,  and 
we  set  out  to  build  a  dam  that  should 
keep  in  the  water,  volcano  or  no  volcano, 
bottomless  pit  or  not. 

On  the  terrace  above  us  sat  an  old  man, 
who  watched  our  proceedings,  chewed 
tobacco  vigorously,  and  whittled  small 
sticks.  We  had  seen  him,  sitting  on  the 
same  bench,  in  the  morning.  Indeed, 
he  had  been  there  for  days,  perhaps  weeks, 
past,  until  he  had  become  a  fixture  in  the 
landscape. 


42  The  Believing  Years 

.  Ed  Mason  climbed  the  terrace  to  get 
another  armful  of  stones  for  the  dam. 
As  he  was  returning,  the  old  man  called 
Ed  to  him,  and  offered,  as  a  gift,  a  little 
musket  whittled  out  of  soft  pine.  The 
stones  were  laid  down  promptly,  the  gift 
accepted,  and  the  two  engaged  in  con 
versation.  Jimmy  and  I  could  not  hear 
what  was  being  said,  but  we  observed  the 
incident  of  the  little  musket,  and  our 
interest  in  the  dam  waned.  We  went  up 
the  terrace  to  see  if  there  were  any  more 
muskets  to  be  distributed. 

But  when  we  arrived,  the  old  fellow 
pointed  at  Ed  with  his  jack-knife,  and 
addressed  us. 

"He  wants  to  know  if  I  ever  was  in  a 
battle!" 

Evidently  the  question  had  been  an 
absurd  one.  We  gathered  this  from  the 
tone  of  derision  with  which  it  was  repeated, 
and  we  promptly  showed  our  apprecia- 


Napoleon  Jones  43 

tion  of  its  absurdity  by  grinning.  We 
marvelled  at  Ed's  obtuseness.  Not  to 
recognize  this  round-faced  old  man  in  the 
dark-blue  suit  as  the  very  incarnation  of 
war  could  only  be  downright  stupidity. 

"Was  I  ever  in  a  battle  ?"  he  inquired 
with  deliberate  sarcasm.  "Well,  I  don't 
know  what  you  call  a  battle,  but  what 
do  you  think  of  a  hundred  an'  thirty  guns 
on  one  hill  an'  eighty  guns  on  another 
hill,  all  blazing  away  at  each  other  like 
Sancho?" 

We  thought  well  of  it.  It  seemed  to 
us  a  very  respectable  battle.  But  Ed 
Mason  was  destined  to  put  his  foot  in  it 
again.  He  held  up  the  little  pine  musket. 

"Guns  like  this  ?"  he  queried. 

The  old  fellow  looked  at  Ed  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  turned  his  gaze  tow 
ard  Jimmy  and  me  and  shook  his  head 
sorrowfully. 

"No,  not  guns  like  that.     Them's  what 


44  The  Believing  Years 

the  infantry  has.  A  hundred  an'  thirty 
of  them  against  eighty  wouldn't  be  no 
battle.  'Twould  be  a  squeamish.  An' 
a  darned  small  one  at  that.  I  mean 
guns.  Don't  you  know  what  guns 
be?" 

Jimmy  Toppan  spoke. 

"Oh,  I  know !  Cannons.  Like  the 
one  they  fired  last  Fourth  of  July,  down 
at  the  foot  of  River  Street." 

"Yes,  that's  the  kind,  I  guess.  I 
wa'n't  there.  Dave  Hunt  was  doin' 
that.  I  see  in  the  paper  they  called  him 
'Gunner  David  Hunt.'  I  nearly  bust 
over  that.  'Gunne-r  David  Hunt' !" 

He  rocked  forward  and  back  on  the 
bench,  chuckling  and  repeating,  "Gunner 
David  Hunt !"  from  time  to  time. 

"Why,  where  do  you  think  he  was  durin' 
the  whole  war  ?" 

We  could  not  imagine. 

"Down    in    Boston    Harbor  —  that's 


Napoleon  Jones  45 

where  he  was.  Why,  he  never  smelled 
powder  in  his  life!" 

This  seemed  extraordinary  to  me.  I 
had  seen  "Gunner  David  Hunt"  on  that 
Fourth  of  July,  and  if  he  hadn't  smelled 
powder  that  day,  he  must  have  been 
suffering  with  a  fearful  cold.  I  had 
smelled  it  distinctly ;  even  kept,  as  I  was, 
at  a  discreet  distance.  For  Mr.  Hunt, 
working  with  the  greatest  activity  in  the 
midst  of  clouds  of  smoke,  not  to  have 
detected  the  odor  struck  me  as  amazing. 
I  was  incautious  enough  to  point  out  my 
impressions  to  the  old  fellow  in  blue. 

He  rewarded  me  with  another  such 
look  of  scorn  as  that  with  which  he  greeted 
Ed's  mistake  about  the  guns. 

"He  never  smelled  powder,  I  tell  yer. 
That  means  he  never  heard  a  shot  fired 
in  anger.  He  may  have  fired  some  of 
them  guns  down  in  that  fort  in  Boston 
Harbor,  at  a  hogshead  floatin'  in  the  water, 


46  The  Believing  Years 

jus'  for  practice.  But  he  never  stood 
up  against  the  enemy  an'  give  'em  back 
shot  for  shot.  An'  the  paper  called 
him  'Gunner  Hunt'  !  Oh,  my  Chris'- 
mas!" 

He  rocked  forward  and  back  again,  and 
laughed  long  and  heartily.  As  it  seemed 
to  be  the  proper  thing  to  do,  all  three  of 
us  laughed,  as  well  as  we  could,  over  the 
presumption  of  Mr.  Hunt. 

Then  the  soldier  became  serious.  He 
took  his  walking-stick,  held  it  out  at  arm's 
length,  and  pointed  across  the  pond. 

"Do  you  see  that  Court  House  over 
there?" 

As  it  was  the  most  prominent  object 
in  the  landscape,  and  hardly  one  hundred 
yards  distant,  we  instantly  admitted  that 
we  did  see  it. 

"An'  do  you  see  George  Washin'ton 
over  to  the  right  ?" 

Yes ;    George  Washington  was  plainly 


Napoleon  Jones  47 

visible.  There  he  stood,  on  his  pedestal, 
with  his  arm  stretched  out  at  his  side,  as 
if  to  smack  any  small  boy  who  walked  on 
the  grass. 

"Well,  over  beyond  George  Washin'ton 
was  where  the  enemy's  batteries  lay  — 
they  stretched  from  there  up  to  Joe  Pea- 
body's  house." 

"When  was  this  ?" 

We  all  spoke  at  once,  and  in  great 
excitement.  Enemy9 s  batteries  on  Elm 
Street ! 

The  old  man  looked  at  us  solemnly, 
and  chewed  with  great  deliberation. 

"That's  to  give  you  an  idea  how  they 
lay  on  the  field.  This  is  on  a  small  scale, 
you  see.  Our  guns  were  right  along  this 
bank,  from  here  to  the  fourth  tree.  No, 
the  fifth.  And  that  graveyard  back  there," 
he  turned  around  and  pointed,  "was  'bout 
in  the  same  position,  only  it  run  down 
nearer  where  we  are  now.  Down  there 


48  The  Believing  Years 

where  the  pond  is,  was  near  a  mile  of 
open  —  wheat-fields  and  so  on.  Every 
thing  was  mighty  quiet  'bout  the  middle 
of  the  morning,  'cos  we'd  been  fightin'  for 
two  days,  you  see.  We  could  see  the 
rebels  plain  enough,  an'  knew  they  was 
up  to  some  deviltry.  But  we  knew  the 
Emperor  Napoleon  Bonaparte  had  his 
eye  on  'em  all  right." 

Napoleon  Bonaparte  !  Our  eyes  opened 
at  this.  "Was  Napoleon  Bonaparte  in 
this  battle?"  I  asked. 

"Was  he?"  returned  the  soldier,  with 
great  energy.  "I  guess  he  come  pretty 
near  bein'.  He  was  in  command  of  the 
whole  army.  Who  did  yer  think  was, 
excep'  him  ?" 

I  had  not  given  the  matter  much 
thought.  But  I  replied  weakly  that  I 
supposed  Napoleon  had  lived  in  France. 

"You  did  ?  Well,  you  got  that  out  of  a 
book,  I  s'pose  ?" 


Napoleon  Jones  49 

I  admitted,  with  some  embarrassment, 
that  I  did  get  it  from  a  book. 

"I  thought  so.  Well,  if  you're  so 
smart  with  your  books,  why  don't  you  tell 
this  instead  of  me  ?  P'r'aps  you  was  in 
this  battle,  hey  ?" 

My  face  became  uncomfortably  warm. 
I  could  not  think  of  anything  to  say. 
After  waiting  a  little,  the  soldier  con 
tinued. 

"If  this  young  feller,  that  knows  so  all- 
fired  much,  ain't  goin'  to  tell  us  how  this 
battle  was  fought,  I  might  as  well  go  on. 
As  I  says  before,  we  could  see  their  guns, 
an'  we  could  see  the  rebels  movin'  about 
'round  'em.  Some  of  their  guns  was  in  a 
little  patch  of  woods,  over  where  that  team 
is  standin'  now.  It  kep'  on  quiet  for 
more'n  two  hours  —  no  one  firin'  a  shot. 
Then  we  see  the  rebels  was  gettin'  ready. 
They  moved  some  of  their  batteries.  An' 
then  the  Emperor  Napoleon  Bonaparte 


50  The  Believing  Years 

rode  up  to  me  on  his  white  hoss,  an'  he 
says,  '  Bring  out  yer  guns  !'  An'  so  I 
brought  'em  out ! " 

My  doubts  vanished.  That  white  horse 
was  conclusive. 

Ed  Mason  spoke  in  an  awed  voice :  — 

"What   did  you   say?" 

"What  did  I  say  ?  I  says,  'All  right, 
yer  Majesty.'  An'  I  fetched  the  guns 
round  to  the  northwestward." 

"What  did  Napoleon  do  then  ?"  asked 
Ed. 

"What  did  he  do  ?  He  just  sat  there 
on  his  white  hoss  an'  he  watched  to  see  if 
we  did  it  all  right.  An'  we  lined  'em  up 
smart,  an'  unlimbered,  an'  back  went  the 
hosses,  an'  there  we  was,  all  ready  in  no 
time.  The  Emperor  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
he  says,  'First-rate,  boys;  you  did  that 
slick  as  grease  !' ' 

"An'  then  the  rebels  let  off  two  guns 
for  a  signal,  an'  then  their  whole  hundred 


Napoleon  Jones  51 

an'  thirty  began  to  once,  an'  so  did  our 
eighty.  An'  that  kep'  up  for  an  hour." 

"Did  any  of  their  shots  hit  you  ?"  in 
quired  Jimmy. 

"Not  to  speak  of.  They  fired  too 
high.  Their  shells  went  plumb  over  our 
heads,  an'  over  the  infantry,  who  was 
lyin'  on  the  ground  behind  us,  an'  bust  in 
the  cemetary.  Some  of  the  gravestones 
was  broke.  Some  of  our  men  was  killed 
when  the  caissons  blew  up." 

We  had  no  idea  what  caissons  were ; 
but  they  blew  up  —  that  was  enough  for 
us. 

"Then  the  Emperor  Napoleon  Bona 
parte  ordered  us  to  cease  firin',  one  battery 
at  a  time.  That  was  where  he  was  foxy. 
He  wanted  to  make  the  rebels  think  our 
guns  had  been  dismounted,  or  that  we 
was  out  of  ammunition,  so's  they  would 
charge.  And  he  fooled  'em,  sure  enough, 
for  pretty  soon  they  did  charge  ! " 


$2  The  Believing  Years 

He  paused,  and  bit  off  some  more 
tobacco,  while  we  jumped  up  and  down 
with  excitement.  Then  he  pointed  again 
with  his  cane. 

"Do  you  see  them  three  trees  to  the 
left  of  the  white  house  ?  Well,  bearin'  a 
little  to  the  right  of  them  is  a  clump  of 
bushes.  There  was  some  woods  at  that 
p'int  of  the  enemy's  position,  an'  they 
come  outer  them.  We  could  see  'em 
plain  as  day,  a  long  line  of  infantry, 
an'  the  officers  on  hosses.  Some  of  'em 
was  in  gray  uniforms,  but  not  all.  We 
could  see  their  flags,  an'  the  sun  shinin' 
on  the  bayonets.  First  one  long  line 
come,  an'  then  another,  an'  then  an 
other.  There  was  close  to  fifteen  thou 
sand  of  'em  —  more  than  all  the  folks 
in  this  town  !" 

We  followed  his  gaze  across  the  pond, 
across  the  mall,  to  that  clump  of  bushes. 
At  any  moment  we  expected  to  see  the 


Napoleon  Jones  53 

gray-clad  lines  break  out  from  behind 
them  and  start  toward  us  with  loud  yells. 
But  we  had  forgotten  how  securely  we 
were  planted  behind  the  old  man's 
batteries. 

"It  didn't  take  us  a  minute  to  open 
on  'em.  We  had  our  guns  trained  in  no 
time,  an'  we  made  it  mighty  hot  for  'em 
as  they  come  across  that  valley.  One 
bunch  come  right  for  my  guns,  but  we 
had  loaded  with  grape  an'  we  just  blew 
'em  to  smithereens.  They  turned  round, 
what  was  left  of  'em,  an'  run  back  like 
Jesse.  There  was  a  rebel  general  on  a 
brown  hoss,  an'  his  hoss  went  down,  an' 
we  nearly  got  him." 

He  stopped.  After  waiting  a  moment, 
we  all  burst  out :  — 

"What  happened  then  ?" 

"Why,  nothin'.  The  battle  was  over. 
The  rebels  had  skedaddled.  But  the 
Emperor  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  he  called 


54  The  Believing  Years 

me  'round  to  his  tent  that  night,  an'  he 
give  me  this  cane." 

"What,  that  one?" 

"This  one.  He  says,  says  he:  'I  like 
the  way  you  worked  your  guns  to-day,  an' 
I  want  you  to  keep  this  stick  to  remem 
ber  me  by.  I  cut  it  myself.'3 

He  let  each  boy  of  us  take  the  stick  in 
his  hand  and  examine  it  reverently.  It 
was  a  cane  of  some  brown  wood,  with  a 
round  knob  at  the  top,  made  of  ivory 
or  bone. 

Then  he  took  a  fat  silver  watch  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  looked  at  that. 

"It's  pretty  nigh  supper-time,  an'  I'm 
goin'  along." 

He  rose  from  the  bench  and  walked 
slowly  away,  limping  slightly,  and  leaning 
on  the  cane  —  the  cane  that  Napoleon  had 
given  him  ! 

We  walked  toward  our  homes,  main 
taining  a  profound  silence.  On  the  other 


Napoleon  Jones  55 

side  of  the  pond  we  met  Rob  Currier,  who 
was  catching  hornpouts.  He  addressed 
us  derisively. 

"Was  that  old  Napoleon  Jones  you 
were  talking  with  ?  He  been  giving  you 
some  of  his  yarns  ?  My  father  says  he's 
cracked.  He  was  in  the  Civil  War,  but 
some  one  got  him  all  worked  up  about 
Napoleon,  till  he  thinks  he  has  seen  him." 

If  Rob  had  hit  each  one  of  us  in  the 
face  with  a  wet  hornpout,  the  effect  would 
have  been  more  agreeable.  We  encoun 
tered  a  realist  for  the  first  time  when  we 
met  Rob  that  afternoon.  We  were  walk 
ing  through  a  golden  haze  of  romance, 
when  he  suddenly  drew  this  leaden-gray 
cloud  across  the  sky. 

"You  make  me  sick!"  declared  Ed 
Mason  ;  "didn't  he  show  us  the  very  cane 
that  Napoleon  gave  him?" 

"Of  course  he  did!"  replied  Jimmy 
Toppan. 


56  The  Believing  Years 

And  "Of  course  he  did  !"  I  chimed  in. 

So  we  fell  on  Rob  Currier,  dragged  him 
down  on  the  turf,  and  stuffed  grass  and 
clover  down  the  back  of  his  neck  until  he 
yelled :  — 

"I  take  it  all  back!" 

Then  we  let  him  up. 


CHAPTER  V 

A   RUN    ON   THE    BANK 

IN  the  garden,  at  the  side  of  our  house, 
there  was  an  apple  tree.  There  were  two 
routes  to  the  top  of  it.  One,  the  common 
everyday  path,  was  obvious  and  easy, 
almost  like  climbing  a  ladder.  You  took 
hold  of  the  large  limb  nearest  the  ground, 
curled  one  leg  and  then  the  other  around 
it,  and  so  wriggled  upon  its  upper  side. 
From  that  point  you  could  climb  from  one 
branch  to  another,  without  any  difficulty, 
till  you  had  reached  the  top  of  the  tree. 
That  was  the  prosaic  method  for  ordinary 
occasions. 

But  when  hard  pressed  by  enemies, 
when  the  shrieking  Indians  were  at  our 

57 


58  The  Believing  Years 

very  heels,  or  a  Bengal  tiger  with  dripping 
jaws  uttered  his  frightful  snarls  only  three 
feet  behind  us,  then  the  circumstances 
called  for  a  different  route.  It  must  be 
something  not  only  quick,  but  risky. 
Time  must  be  saved,  seconds  were  pre 
cious.  More  than  that,  the  fitness  of 
things  called  for  an  element  of  danger  in 
the  ascent.  There  was  no  honor  in  the 
adventure  if  we  climbed  by  the  slow,  safe 
path  —  the  highroad,  so  to  speak,  of  com 
merce  and  trade. 

Blood  was  up  ;  the  blast  of  war  blew  in 
our  ears. 

So,  at  such  times,  we  approached  the 
tree  from  the  other  side,  leaped  high  in  the 
air  to  a  branch  above  our  heads,  and,  by 
a  deal  of  swarming,  shinning,  pulling,  and 
straining,  reached  the  top. 

Then,  from  amid  the  leaves,  we  could 
pour  down  a  murderous  fire  from  our 
trusty  rifles,  till  every  Indian  lay  stretched 


A  Run  on  the  Bank  59 

on  the  ground,  or  the  Bengal  tiger  gave 
one  last  bellow  and  expired. 

It  must  not  be  thought,  however,  that 
these  exciting  moments,  when  the  apple 
tree  was  an  island  of  refuge,  made  it 
altogether  a  tame  and  profitless  retreat 
in  quieter  times.  It  was  enjoyable  for 
rest  and  recreation,  and  it  formed  an  ex 
cellent  watch-tower  from  which  to  spy 
out  the  land.  In  May  the  pink  and 
white  blossoms  turned  it  into  an  exqui 
site  bouquet.  Later  in  the  summer  the 
big  green  fruit  —  though  not  agreeable  if 
eaten  raw  —  could  be  transformed  into 
the  highest  triumph  cooks  ever  achieved 
—  the  apple-pie. 

Near  the  top  an  almost  horizontal 
branch  made  a  tolerable  seat.  At  about 
the  level  of  our  eyes,  as  we  sat  there, 
another  branch  stretched  its  smooth  sur 
face.  The  bark  on  it  was  new,  and  so 
plainly  adapted  to  the  use  of  a  jack-knife 


60  The  Believing  Years 

that  the  symbols  "E.  M.,"  "  J.  R.  T.,"  and 
"S.  E.,"  deeply  carven,  indicated  that 
Edward  Mason,  James  Rogers  Toppan, 
and  Samuel  Edwards  had  left  their  signs 
manual  upon  it. 

On  the  day  of  which  I  speak  these  gentle 
men  sat  on  the  horizontal  branch  and 
devoured  the  contents  of  a  roll  of  pepper 
mint  lozenges.  I  had  had  a  cent  that 
afternoon,  and  had  expended  it  in  this 
highly  satisfactory  form  of  pleasure.  r 

You  got  twelve  tiny  lozenges  for  a  cent, 
and  that  made  four  apiece  all  round.  In 
buying  them  you  had  to  make  serious 
choice  between  peppermint  in  yellow 
wrappers,  checkerberry  in  green  wrappers, 
cinnamon  in  pink  wrappers,  clove  in 
brown  wrappers  (especially  alluring  be 
cause  reputed  to  be  dangerous  —  cloves 
having  the  well-known  habit  of  "drying 
your  blood"),  and  rose  in  purple  wrap 
pers  —  a  particularly  insipid  flavor,  often 


A  Run  on  the  Bank  61 

tried  in  the  hope  that  it  would  taste  dif 
ferent  this  time. 

The  fun  was  not  all  over  when  you  had 
eaten  the  lozenges  (by  a  slow  process  of 
suction),  for  there  still  remained  the  paper 
wrapper.  This  had  always  printed  upon 
it  some  legend  of  more  or  less  interest. 
The  yellow  one,  that  inclosed  these  pep 
permint  lozenges,  bore  a  few  moral  and 
patriotic  sentiments  concerning  the  Father 
of  Our  Country. 

The  three  personages  in  the  apple  tree 
thereupon  engaged  in  a  discussion  on  the 
subject :  Who  was  the  greatest  man  that 
ever  lived  ?  Jimmy  Toppan  and  I  de 
clared  for  George  Washington,  but  Ed 
Mason,  for  some  unexplained  reason, 
brought  in  a  minority  report  for  Amerigo 
Vespucci. 

Then  Jimmy  Toppan  was  moved  to 
relate  an  anecdote. 

"  I  heard  somewhere  that  George  Wash- 


62  The  Believing  Years 

ington,  or  pVaps  'twas  Daniel  Webster, 
but  anyhow  it  was  some  one,  when  he  was 
a  boy,  once  put  a  coin  in  the  bark  of  a 
tree  in  his  father's  orchard.  Then,  a  long 
time  afterward,  when  he  was  President  of 
the  United  States,  he  came  back  there, 
and  went  right  up  to  the  tree  and  took 
out  his  jack-knife  and  cut  away  the  bark, 
and  there  was  the  piece  of  money  !  You 
see,  the  bark  had  grown  over  it,  and 
covered  it  up  all  those  years." 

This  was  an  interesting  bit  of  informa 
tion  ! 

All  of  us  were  instantly  filled  with  a 
desire  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the 
great.  Here  was  the  tree,  and  here  was 
the  bark.  But  the  coins  were  lacking. 
The  only  one  we  had  possessed  that  after 
noon  had  gone  for  peppermint  lozenges. 
Fourth  of  July  money  must  not  be  touched. 
Perhaps,  however,  a  special  appeal  to 
the  authorities  would  be  successful.  We 


A  Run  on  the  Bank  63 

agreed  to  make  application  to  the  lords 
of  the  treasuries,  and  each  to  come  to 
morrow  provided  with  a  cent. 

The  agreement  was  kept,  and  the  fol 
lowing  morning  saw  us  at  work  on  the 
bark  of  the  apple  tree.  Three  incisions 
were  made  (each  one  working  at  that  part 
of  the  branch  nearest  his  initials)  and 
three  copper  cents  were  duly  deposited. 
Then  we  descended  the  tree,  and  left  our 
treasure  to  the  silent  years. 

"How  long  do  you  suppose  it  will  take 
the  bark  to  grow  over  them  ?"  inquired 
Ed  Mason. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Years  and  years. 
Washington,  or  whoever  it  was,  didn't 
come  back  till  he  was  an  old  man." 

"Well,  then,  we  ought  not.  They 
ought  to  be  left  there  for  sixty  or  seventy 
years,  anyhow." 

It  was  unanimously  agreed  that  not  less 
than  seventy  years  must  elapse  before  the 
coins  should  be  disturbed. 


64  The  Believing  Years 

We  wandered  out  of  the  garden,  down 
the  street,  and  through  the  grounds  of  the 
Universalist  Church.  Drippings  from 
the  eaves  of  that  building  had  unearthed 
hundreds  of  pebbles,  and  Ed  Mason  began 
selecting  round  ones  for  his  sling-shot. 
Then  he  took  that  instrument  out  of  his 
pocket  and  discharged  the  pebbles  at  a 
distant  fence.  But  the  sling-shot  worked 
indifferently,  and  Ed  pronounced  the 
elastic  worn  out. 

"You  can  get  a  dandy  piece  for  a  cent 
down  at  Higginson's,"  I  observed. 

Then  the  significance  of  the  remark 
struck  me,  and  I  glanced  guiltily  away. 
There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation, 
until  the  sound  of  a  horn  suggested  the 
approaching  Fourth  of  July. 

"Only  nine  days  till  the  Fourth," 
declared  Jimmy  Toppan.  "How  many 
bunches  you  fellers  goin'  to  have?" 

We  counted  on  at  least  fifteen  apiece. 


A  Run  on  the  Bank  65 

"So  do  I,"  said  Jimmy;  "and  tor 
pedoes,  and  a  horn." 

"Horns  are  foolish,"  remarked  Ed 
Mason;  "girls  and  babies  always  have 
horns." 

"That's  all  right,"  retorted  Jimmy; 
"they  last.  You'll  prob'ly  be  round 
Fourth  of  July  afternoon,  when  you've 
fired  off  all  your  fifteen  bunches  of 
fire-crackers,  wantin'  to  blow  on  my 
horn." 

I  put  in  a  remark  here. 

"I'm  goin'  to  have  six  sticks  of  slow- 
match,  an'  five  boxes  of  Ajax  torpedoes." 

But  it  did  not  impress  Ed  Mason. 

"Ajax  ain't  half  as  good  as  Ironclad," 
he  announced. 

Jimmy  Toppan  also  had  preferences. 

"Have  you  seen  those  Chinese  Aerial 
Bombs  down  at  Johnson's  ?  They're  the 
biggest  torpedoes  you  ever  saw  —  each 
one  as  big  as  your  fist !  Gee  !  I'd  like 


66  The  Believing  Years 

to  hear  one  of  'em  go  off  !  They  cost 
a  cent  apiece,  an'  —  " 

He  stopped. 

Somehow  the  conversation  would  get 
around  to  the  subject  of  things  costing 
a  cent.  It  was  most  embarrassing.  We 
had  invested  our  capital  for  seventy  years, 
and  were  already  feeling  the  pinch. 

The  morning  wore  on,  and  though  I 
observed  both  Ed  and  Jimmy  to  cast  sur 
reptitious  glances  toward  the  apple  tree, 
there  were  no  more  references  to  the 
subject  of  cents. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  over  to  Rob 
Currier's  house,  and  found  him  engaged 
with  the  most  fascinating  weapon  imagin 
able.  It  was  a  pop-gun  made  from  a 
goose-quill.  It  shot  small  pieces  of  raw 
potato  to  a  great  distance,  and  did  so,  with 
a  loud  and  soul-satisfying  pop. 

His  uncle  had  made  it  for  him,  said 
Rob. 


A  Run  on  the  Bank  67 

He  willingly  let  me  experiment  with  it, 
but  he  was  not  interested  to  watch  me 
very  long. 

"Let's  go  down  and  look  at  the  fire 
crackers  in  Johnson's  window,"  he  sug 
gested. 

"I'd  rather  stay  here  and  shoot  this 
pop-gun,"  I  declared. 

"I'm  tired  of  it,"  he  rejoined.  "Sell  it 
to  you  for  a  cent." 

Again  the  cent ! 

I  put  down  the  pop-gun  and  accom 
panied  Rob  to  Johnson's  shop,  where  we 
spent  twenty  minutes  with  our  noses 
flattened  against  the  pane,  choosing  what 
we  would  take  if  Mr.  Johnson  should 
come  out  and  invite  us  to  help  our 
selves. 

Mr.  Johnson  did  nothing  of  the  sort, 
however. 

We  agreed  that  our  first  choice  would 
be  a  mine,  which  was  described  as  "send- 


68  The  Believing  Years 

ing  to  an  enormous  height  nine  colored 
stars,  alternately  green,  purple,  and  car 
mine,  and  then  exploding  with  a  rain  of 
golden  serpents." 

This  point  decided,  we  repaired  to  the 
Curriers'  and  spent  the  afternoon  perfect 
ing  our  skill  with  the  lasso. 

In  the  interval  that  evening,  between 
supper  and  bedtime,  I  suffered  much 
uneasiness. 

Some  member  of  my  family  read  from 
the  evening  paper  that  thieves  were  re 
ported  in  town.  Instantly,  I  thought 
of  the  three  cents  in  the  apple  tree. 
Surely  it  had  been  rash  to  leave  them 
exposed.  There  was  nothing  in  the  story 
about  Washington  to  tell  what  he  did 
to  protect  his  coin  from  thieves.  How 
would  he  have  felt  if  he  had  come  back, 
President  of  the  United  States,  and  found 
that  some  one  had  stolen  his  cent  ? 

Moreover,  there  was  always  the  chance 


A  Run  on  the  Bank  69 

that  I  might  never  become  President.  In 
all  fairness,  I  had  to  consider  that. 

Suddenly  the  thought  of  Rob  Currier's 
pop-gun  recurred  to  me.  I  needed  that 
pop-gun. 

Once  during  the  night  I  got  up  and 
looked  out  of  my  bedroom  window  to  see 
if  the  apple  tree  were  safe.  It  seemed  to 
be  standing  serene  enough  in  the  moon 
light,  but  who  could  tell  what  marauders 
might  besiege  it  ? 

In  the  morning  my  mind  was  made  up. 
As  soon  as  I  finished  breakfast  I  hurried 
out,  climbed  the  tree  by  the  emergency 
route,  and  began  to  cut  at  the  bark  where 
my  cent  was  concealed. 

I  had  it  in  an  instant. 

As  I  was  working  I  noticed  that  the 
other  two  cents  were  gone  already.  I 
turned  around  and  looked  down  Oak 
Street.  Jimmy  Toppan,  with  one  fist 
tightly  clutched,  was  running  at  full  speed 


70  The  Believing  Years 

toward  Johnson's  and  the  Chinese  Aerial 
Bomb. 

Ed  Mason  was  nowhere  in  sight.  Ap 
parently  he  had  withdrawn  his  deposit 
even  earlier. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HORACE 

DURING  that  week  before  the  Fourth  of 
July  the  days  passed  with  incredible  slow 
ness.  One  afternoon,  to  beguile  the  time, 
I  went  over  to  Horace  Winslow's  house. 

Horace,  from  the  standpoint  of  most  of 
us,  was  entitled  to  sympathy,  —  he  was 
being  "brought  up"  with  so  much  care. 

Not  that  any  of  us  were  neglected. 
School  was  our  portion,  Mr.  Colburn's 
and  other  improving  but  uncomfortable 
books  were  our  fare  through  nine  months 
of  the  year.  On  Sundays  we  were  duly 
despatched  to  the  school  appropriate  to 
that  day.  We  each  carried  the  tra 
ditional  cent  for  the  contribution  box. 
And,  as  in  the  story-books  (which  are 
71 


72  The  Believing  Years 

sometimes  faithful  transcripts  from  life), 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  we  passed  the 
traditional  drug  shop,  which  displayed 
the  traditional  peppermint  lozenges  and 
"coltsfoot." 

And,  still  in  the  traditional  manner, 
the  Tempter's  voice  was  loud  sometimes 
in  our  ears,  —  so  loud  that  we  turned  and 
entered  Dr.  Dibden's  shop,  and  spent 
that  cent  for  a  roll  of  lozenges,  or  a  piece 
of  coltsfoot,  or  of  "stick  lickrish." 

But  if  we  did  this  thing,  so  did  Horace 
Winslow.  And  if,  occasionally,  we  had 
to  be  sent  from  the  dinner-table  to  re 
move  a  few  burrs  from  our  coat  collars, 
or  to  make  another  attempt  with  the  hair 
brush,  so  had  Horace.  In  such  matters 
his  experiences  were  not  different  from 
those  of  the  other  boys  in  the  neighbor 
hood. 

His  mind  was  being  improved,  —  that 
was  all. 


Horace  73 

It  had  not  injured  his  health  to  any 
extent.  He  presented,  on  that  afternoon, 
his  usual  round  countenance,  and  red 
cheeks.  A  pleasing  plumpness  was  his 
most  noticeable  characteristic,  —  not  the 
lean  air  of  the  scholar. 

I  found  him  making  a  suitable  home 
for  his  turtles,  and  I  joined  in  the  work 
with  enthusiasm.  The  turtles  had  been 
straying  lately,  and  it  was  clear  that 
something  had  to  be  done.  It  is  distress 
ing,  after  you  have  lavished  any  amount 
of  attention  on  a  turtle,  and  have  tied 
him  by  a  long  string  so  as  to  give  him 
wide  liberty,  to  find  in  the  morning  that 
he  has  twisted  and  tangled  the  string 
amongst  the  grass,  and  then  departed, 
leaving  one  end  of  the  string  buried,  as 
if  in  derision,  in  the  ground. 

We  set  out  to  construct  a  turtle-proof 
pen  from  boards  and  shingles. 

"I  came  pretty  near  losin'  all  the 
turtles,"  said  Horace. 


74  The  Believing  Years 

"Did  they  break  the  strings  ?"  I  asked. 

"No,  —  only  one  of  'em.  But  Aunt 
said  she  didn't  know  but  I'd  have  to  put 
'em  all  back  in  the  pond." 

"What  for?" 

"  'Cos  I  took  one  of  'em  to  bed  with  me 
night  'fore  last." 

"Which  one?" 

"That  big  one,  with  the  yuller  spots." 

"Did  she  mind?" 

"Who,  —  Aunt  Cora?  You  bet  she 
did  !  I  put  him  in  the  bath-tub  to  give 
him  a  swim  in  the  mornin',  an'  I  forgot 
him  when  I  went  to  breakfast,  an'  then 
right  after  breakfast  I  had  to  go  down 
town  to  get  a  yeast-cake,  an'  Aunt  found 
him  swimmin'  round  in  the  tub,  an'  she 
said  'twas  horrid  to  have  turtles  in  the 
tub,  an'  she  wanted  to  know  when  I  put 
him  there,  an'  so  she  found  out  I'd  had 
him  under  the  pillow  all  night,  an'  she 
was  awful  mad  !  I  thought  she  was  goin' 


Horace  75 

to  lick  me,  but  she  didn't.  I  didn't 
dare  tell  her  I'd  had  another  one  up  there 
the  night  before,  —  the  little  black  one. 
He's  a  jim-dandy,  —  the  best  turtle  I've 
got.  His  name  is  Pete." 

I  agreed  that  Pete  was  a  very  desirable 
turtle.  And  I  put  in  a  request. 

"Tell  me  if  your  Aunt  makes  you  put 
'em  back  in  the  pond,  will  you  ?" 

"She  won't.  She  said  I  could  keep 
'em,  but  I  can't  bring  'em  inside  the 
house.  Gee !  She's  been  awful  cross 
lately,  though.  Last  night  again.  An' 
Uncle,  too.  We  went  in  swimmin'  out  to 
Four  Rocks,  —  I  mean  I  did,  an'  Ben 
Spauldin',  an'  Harry  Fletcher,  an'  —  " 

"How'd  you  go  ?"  I  interrupted;  "out 
the  railroad  ?" 

"No,  we  got  a  ride  on  Dole's  wagon 
to  the  green,  an'  then  went  out  the  middle 
road.  While  we  were  in  the  water,  two 
fellers  came  along,  an'  grabbed  most  of 


76  The  Believing  Years 

my  clothes,  an'  Ben's,  an'  run  up  across 
the  track,  an'  chucked  'em  into  Mr. 
Harris'  shanty,  an'  then  run  off  laughin' ; 
an*  I  run  up  to  get  'em,  an'  just  as  I  got 
up  on  the  road  Aunt  an'  Uncle  came 
drivin'  along  with  Mr.  Benton,  an'  they 
were  mad  as  hops  'cos  I  didn't  have  any- 
thin'  on,  an'  Uncle  was  goin'  to  make  me 
get  into  the  carriage  an'  get  under  a  robe, 
till  I  told  him  my  clothes  were  in  the 
shanty." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  I'd  ought  to  have  taken  bet 
ter  care  of  my  clothes,  an'  Aunt  said 
it  was  disgraceful  runnin'  round  stark 
naked  on  the  road,  an'  she  was  mortified 
to  death,  an'  I  couldn't  go  in  swimmin' 
any  more  if  I  didn't  behave,  an'  —  oh, 
darn  it  all,  is  that  two  o'clock?" 

It  was  certainly  two.  The  North 
Church  clock  struck  the  hour  dis 
tinctly. 


Horace  77 

"I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  go  in,  now,"  he 
announced  sorrowfully. 

I  was  about  to  ask  the  reason,  when 
the  voice  of  Mrs.  Vincent,  Horace's 
aunt,  came  from  behind  the  closed  shut 
ters  of  a  window. 

"Horace!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  come  in  now!" 

"Horace  !" 

"Well,  I  don't,  Aunt.  Sam  Edwards 
is  here,  and  we've  got  to  build  this  turtle- 
pen." 

"HORACE!" 

"I  can't  leave  Sam  here  all  alone, 
Aunt.  'Twouldn't  be  polite." 

"Horace,  come  in  the  house  instantly. 
You  may  bring  Samuel  with  you." 

"Oh,  he  don't  want  to  come." 

"Doesn't  want  to  come,  you  mean. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  hear  me  read  to 
Horace,  Samuel  ?" 

I  was  greatly  interested  in  the  turtles, 


78  The  Believing  Years 

but  I  was  also  fond  of  being  read  to. 
Apparently  I  was  going  to  lose  the  com 
pany  of  Horace,  anyhow.  Moreover,  I 
was  afraid  of  Horace's  aunt.  So  I  meekly 
said :  — 

"Yes'm." 

But  Horace  still  raised  objections. 

"We  can't  leave  the  turtles  like  this 
Aunt,  —  they'll  all  get  away." 

"Horace,  mind  what  I  say  this  minute. 
You  can  make  the  turtles  safe  enough. 
I  will  give  you  three  minutes  longer,  and 
if  you  are  not  indoors  then,  your  uncle 
will  punish  you  this  evening." 

We  collected  the  wayward  turtles  and 
put  them  in  a  garden  basket.  A  few 
seconds  later  we  presented  ourselves  be 
fore  Mrs.  Vincent,  who  looked  at  us  omi 
nously  over  the  top  of  a  book.  Horace 
sat  down  in  one  stiff-backed  chair,  and  I 
in  another.  He  began  to  screw  his  face 
into  knots  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  book. 


Horace  79 

It  was  unknown  to  me,  and  fifteen  or 
twenty  years  were  to  elapse  before  I 
should  know  its  title.  Then,  one  day, 
reading  Guizot's  "History  of  France,"  I 
recognized  a  passage,  and  realized  with 
what  work  we  had  been  regaled,  —  when 
we  wished  to  build  a  turtle-pen. 

"Oh,  Aunt—  " 

"Horace,  be  quiet.  Sit  up  straight  in 
your  chair.  Put  your  hand  down." 

She  looked  Horace  over  critically,  and 
then  began  to  read. 

"'The  old  parliamentarians  were 
triumphant;  at  the  same  time  as  Abbe 
Terray,  Chancellor  Maupeou  was  dis 
graced,  and  the  judicial  system  he  had 
founded  fell  with  him.  Unpopular  from 
the  first,  the  Maupeou  Parliament  had 
remained  in  the  nation's  eyes  the  image 
of  absolute  power  corrupted  and  corrupt 
ing.  The  suit  between  Beaumarchais 
and  Councillor  Goezman  — '  " 


8o  The  Believing  Years 

"Oh,  Aunt,  I  don't  want—" 

"Horace,  if  you  are  not  still  this  instant, 
I  will  put  you  to  bed  !" 

Horace's  articulations  dissolved  into 
snuffles  and  whines  ;  we  both  hitched  and 
wriggled  in  our  chairs,  and  the  reading 
went  on.  We  heard  what  Chancellor 
Maupeou  said  to  the  Duke  de  La  Vril- 
liere,  and  what  M.  Turgot  wrote  to  Louis 
XVI,  —  if  a  process  in  which  the  brain 
took  almost  no  part  can  be  called  hearing. 
These  personages  were  strangers  to  me, 
but  Horace  greeted  them  as  familiar  ene 
mies.  I  judged  that  he  knew  and  hated 
them  of  old  time. 

An  hour  passed,  a  long  hot  hour.  M. 
de  Malesherbes  had  gone  the  way  of 
Turgot,  and  Horace  and  I  were  reduced 
to  a  mere  coma.  Then  the  book  was 
closed,  and  we  were  told  that  we  might 
return  to  our  turtles. 

We    did    so    with    profound   joy,    and 


Horace  81 

Horace,  seeing  the  Tiltons'  cat  hurrying 
over  the  fence,  remarked  that  she  was 
Chancellor  Maupeou,  and  threw  a  green 
apple  at  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    GREAT   DAY 

FROM  far  off  came  a  sound  of  popping 
and  snapping,  —  some  boy,  unable  to 
wait,  was  trying  a  few  fire-crackers.  It 
still  lacked  a  day  or  two  of  the  Fourth  of 
July,  and  the  strain  was  telling  on  us. 

A  door  that  was  slammed  or  a  whip 
that  was  cracked  took  on  a  new  signifi 
cance,  while  the  fish-pedlers'  horns 
seemed  to  have  an  altogether  unusual 
note. 

Underneath  my  bed  was  a  box  contain 
ing  fifteen  bunches  of  fire-crackers,  or 
dinary  size ;  three  bunches  of  cannon 
crackers ;  two  single  gigantic  fellows ; 
and  some  sticks  of  slow-match.  There 
were  also  the  five  boxes  of  Ajax  torpe- 
82 


The  Great  Day  83 

does,  twisted  tight  in  their  red  paper,  and 
slumbering  now  in  sawdust,  but  all  ready 
to  explode  delightfully  when  the  time 
came. 

Jimmy  Toppan  had  taken  the  wrappers 
from  his  fire-crackers,  and  separated  the 
crackers.  Slowly  and  painfully  he  had 
disentangled  the  fuses  which  some  Chinese 
workman  had  skilfully  braided  together. 
It  had  taken  a  whole  afternoon  to  do  it, 
but  now  he  had  no  one  knew  how  many 
thousands  of  crackers,  neatly  piled  in  a 
large  cigar-box. 

He  was  prepared  for  the  morning  of 
the  Fourth,  when  he  could  sit  down  in 
some  convenient  place,  —  the  curbstone, 
for  instance,  with  a  stick  of  lighted  slow- 
match  in  one  hand,  and  the  cigar-box  full 
of  fire-crackers  beside  him. 

Then,  with  due  deliberation,  he  could 
choose  a  fire-cracker,  bring  the  glowing 
end  of  the  slow-match  to  the  fuse  of  the 


84  The  Believing  Years 

cracker,  throw  the  latter  into  the  street 
as  soon  as  it  began  to  spit  out  sparks, 
and  wait  ecstatically  for  the  explosion. 

As  soon  as  this  had  occurred  he  could 
repeat  the  whole  operation,  —  for  hours. 

Untangling  the  fire-crackers  had  pulled 
the  fuses  out  of  some  of  them.  These 
unfortunates  were  carefully  put  aside  for 
"  cat  and  dog  fights." 

There  were  one  or  two  green  fire 
crackers  in  every  bunch,  and  occasionally 
a  yellow  one.  These  he  herded  by  them 
selves,  for  use  at  especially  important 
moments.  That  they  make  a  louder 
noise  than  the  red  ones  is  a  scientific  fact 
well  known  to  all  experts. 

I  had  not  separated  my  crackers.  It 
was  a  joy  I  decided  to  defer  until  the  great 
day.  There  was  a  pleasure  in  seeing  the 
bunches  intact,  and  in  observing  the  red 
wrappers  with  their  gorgeous  gilt  dragons. 
You  could  smell  the  gunpowdery  smell  as 


The  Great  Day  85 

well  as  if  the  packages  had  been  opened. 
But  I  counted  those  eighteen  bunches  of 
crackers  every  night  and  every  morning, 
and  sometimes  during  the  day.  And  I 
had  broken  the  top  of  one  of  the  torpedo 
boxes  and  explored  with  my  fingers  in 
the  sawdust. 

There  were  twelve  fat  torpedoes  in  the 
box,  and  five  boxes,  and  that  made  — 
that  made  —  (oh  !  Mr.  Colburn  !)  it  made 
sixty  !  yes,  sixty  great,  big,  lovely  tor 
pedoes.  Sixty  beautiful  bangs  ! 

But  one  must  be  careful  with  torpe 
does.  They  must  be  fired  with  care,  one 
at  a  time,  for  the  proper  enjoyment  of 
them.  There  had  been  accidents,  —  I 
had  seen  one  the  year  before.  Little 
Larry  Paine  had  fired  all  his  crackers  be 
fore  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  went 
into  the  house  to  get  the  last  of  his  stock 
of  explosives,  —  a  box  of  torpedoes.  The 
sawdust  had  been  taken  out,  and  he  came 


86  The  Believing  Years 

forth  again  with  a  dozen  torpedoes  loose 
in  the  box.  As  he  reached  the  sidewalk 
the  box  slipped,  and  fell  on  the  bricks  with 
one  terrifying  crash.  All  the  torpedoes 
had  gone  off  together. 

It  was  magnificent,  but  it  was  not  war. 
It  filled  us  with  joy,  but  it  filled  Larry 
with  woe.  He  lifted  up  his  voice  and 
mourned  because  they  were  not.  With 
loud  wails  he  retreated  into  the  house, 
and  his  agonized  family  knew  no  peace 
for  an  hour. 

"My  brother  Billy's  goin'  to  the  bon 
fire  at  midnight,"  announced  Ed  Mason, 
conscious  of  the  glory  reflected  upon  him 
by  this  fact. 

But  I  was  not  to  be  outdone. 

"Poo!  that's  nothin'.  My  brother's 
goin'  to  stay  up  all  night ;  he  an'  Phil 
Coombs  an'  Arthur  Monroe  are  goin'  to 
sleep  in  Arthur  Monroe's  barn  an'  they're 
goin'  to  the  bonfire  an'  they  ain't  goin' 


The  Great  Day  87 

to  bed  at  all.  Last  Fourth  he  nearly  got 
arrested  for  ringin'  the  High  School 
bell!" 

I  was  determined  to  leave  Ed  Mason 
not  a  leg  to  stand  on. 

"Well,"  he  remarked  weakly,  "I'm 
goin'  to  get  up  at  half-past  three,  any 
way." 

He  had  me  there.  I  had  parental  per 
mission  to  get  up  at  four  o'clock,  and 
I  had  not  expected  to  be  surpassed  in 
this  important  achievement  by  my  own 
familiar  friend. 

It  rankled  with  me  all  day,  and  in  the 
evening  I  laid  the  case  before  my  father 
and  mother.  For  the  honor  of  the  family, 
as  well  as  for  my  own  self-respect,  I  simply 
had  to  get  up  at  half-past  three. 

They  were  in  doubt.  It  was  going  to 
be  a  long  and  exciting  day  for  me.  Aside 
from  the  exertion  of  firing  my  own  supply 
of  crackers  and  torpedoes,  I  was  going  at 


88  The  Believing  Years 

noon  to  see  "Gunner  Hunt"  fire  his 
annual  salute  at  the  foot  of  River  Street. 
Then  there  was  the  flag-raising  on  the 
mall  at  two  o'clock,  and  the  fireworks 
at  March's  Hill  in  the  evening. 

But  they  finally  consented,  and  once 
more  I  could  look  Ed  Mason  in  the  face. 

When  the  evening  of  the  jd  of  July 
came,  I  went  cheerfully  to  bed  at  seven 
o'clock,  in  order  to  prepare  for  the  labors 
of  the  next  day.  I  counted  my  fire 
crackers,  and  found  their  number  com 
plete.  It  was  rather  hard  to  get  to  sleep 
on  account  of  the  uproarious  sounds  from 
Main  Street,  —  cannon  crackers,  muskets, 
revolvers,  cow-bells,  and  horns.  But 
finally  I  dropped  off,  —  only  to  be  dis 
turbed  by  a  dream  that  Auntie  Merrill 
had  come  into  the  room  and  was  making 
a  raid  on  my  fire-crackers. 

It  was  a  hideous  nightmare,  —  she 
vanished  out  the  door  with  her  arms  full 


The  Great  Day  89 

of  my  precious  possessions,  and  I  could 
not  do  a  thing  to  stop  her.  When  I  woke 
I  had  to  get  up  and  count  those  fire 
crackers  again. 

Then  I  climbed  back  in  bed  once  more 
and  listened  to  the  distant  noise.  Some 
body  came  down  our  street,  dragging  a 
string  of  cow-bells.  The  national  holi 
day  was  being  celebrated  with  diligence. 

Suddenly  it  struck  me  that  perhaps 
the  morning  had  already  come.  In  a 
panic  I  jumped  up,  lighted  a  match,  and 
looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  eight  o'clock, 
—  I  had  been  asleep  less  than  an  hour. 
Listening  at  the  open  window  I  could  hear 
my  family  talking  in  the  garden  below. 
I  remembered  that  I  was  to  meet  Ed 
Mason  and  Jimmy  Toppan  in  that  gar 
den  at  half-past  three,  and  that  I  had 
better  get  to  sleep  again. 

I  lay  in  bed  once  more,  trying  not  to 
hear  the  din.  All  at  once  I  became 


go  The  Believing  Years 

aware  that  some  one  —  my  father  —  was 
standing  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  shaking 
me. 

"  Sam !  Sam !  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  get  up.  It's  quarter  of  four." 

"What?" 

I  jumped  out,  confused.  There  was 
a  dim  light  outside,  —  not  daylight,  by 
any  means.  I  began  to  dress,  and  fumble 
for  the  fire-crackers.  Things  seemed  very 
different,  somehow,  from  what  I  had 
expected. 

As  I  went  downstairs  jl  heard  my 
father  say:  — 

"  It's  raining,  I  think,  —  put  on  your 
rubber  coat." 

Rain !  How  would  the  fire-crackers 
like  that?  L] 

Outside  I  found  Ed  and  Jimmy.  They 
were  rather  silent,  but  inclined  to  be  con 
temptuous  because  I  was  late.  They 
had  been  fiddling  around  in  the  garden 


The  Great  Day  91 

for  some  minutes,  waiting  for  me.  Jimmy 
had  an  umbrella,  and  did  not  look  very 
happy. 

;  We  went  out  to  the  front  of  the  house, 
and  sat  down  on  the  door-steps.  Jimmy 
had  his  box  of  fire-crackers  (which  he 
managed  with  difficulty  on  account  of 
the  umbrella),  while  Ed  Mason  had  his 
crackers  in  a  canvas  bag.  Owing  to  the 
breeze,  which  was  rather  brisk,  we  had 
some  trouble  in  lighting  the  slow-match. 
Just  as  we  got  it  going  the  rain  began  to 
fall  in  a  smart  shower. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  retreat 
inside  the  house  once  more.  This  was  a 
pretty  sort  of  Fourth  of  July  !  The  pos 
sibility  of  such  an  inconsiderate  act  on 
the  part  of  Heaven  had  never  occurred 
to  us.  Could  it  be  that  they  did  not 
know,  up  there,  what  day  this  was  ? 

It  was  a  little  dull  in  the  house. 
Jimmy  and  I  both  fell  asleep,  and  so,  I 


92  The  Believing  Years 

think,  did  Ed  Mason,  though  he  denied 
it.  Fortunately  I  found  some  raspberry 
turnovers  in  the  pantry,  and  they  helped 
alleviate  our  sufferings. 

Shortly  before  breakfast  the  rain 
stopped,  and  the  sun  came  feebly  out. 
We  were  soon  in  the  street  once  more, 
creating  a  racket  that  left  nothing  to 
be  desired.  Joe  and  Charley  Carter 
joined  us,  and  so  did  Rob  Currier  and 
Peter  Bailey.  Peter  had  a  revolver,  and 
he  scorned  fire-crackers.  The  Rev.  Mr. 
Dimmick,  who  lived  across  the  street, 
stood  on  the  steps  of  his  dwelling  and 
beamed  upon  us.  He  looked  as  if  he 
would  like  to  celebrate,  too. 

Mr.  Dimmick  was  a  minister,  which 
was  too  bad,  because  he  was  such  a  good 
ball-player.  Charley  Carter  had  an  enor 
mous  cannon  cracker,  and  when  he  started 
to  touch  it  off,  Mr.  Dimmick  called 
out:  — 


The  Great  Day  93 

"Wait  a  minute,  —  you  ought  to  have 
something  to  put  over  that, — a  box,  or  a 
can,  or  something." 

"I  wish  I  had!"  said  Charley;  "let 
me  take  that  cigar-box,  Jimmy?" 

"I've  got  just  the  thing,"  shouted  the 
minister;  "I'll  get  it." 

And  he  vanished  into  the  house.  Pres 
ently  he  came  out  again  with  a  shin 
ing  tin  box.  They  lighted  the  cannon 
cracker,  clapped  the  box  over  it,  and  ran. 

Bang  !  went  the  cracker,  and  the  box 
shot  straight  up  in  the  air. 

"Jiminy!"  said  Joe  Carter,  "  'twon't 
never  come  down  !" 

It  looked  as  if  it  wouldn't.  It  went  up 
above  the  houses,  above  the  trees,  even. 
Then  it  started  to  fall,  and  as  it  did  so  a 
funny  thing  happened.  For  the  seams 
of  the  box  had  all  been  blown  apart,  and 
only  its  swift  upward  rush  had  kept  them 
together.  As  soon  as  it  started  on  its 


94  The  Believing  Years 

downward  trip,  they  flew  apart,  and  the 
box  struck  the  earth,  aflat  sheet  of  tin, — 
flat  as  a  fritter. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Dimmick  came  to  the 
door. 

"James,"  she  said,  "I  can't  find  my 
new  cake  tin,  —  have  you  seen  it  ?" 

"Er  —  oh,  what,  my  dear  ?  Yes,  Har 
old  has  just  strayed  off,  —  up  the  street, 
I  think,  —  I'll  find  him  all  right." 

And  Mr.  Dimmick  hurried  away. 

We  spent  the  morning,  after  breakfast, 
in  the  midst  of  a  delicious  cloud  of  powder 
smoke.  "Dynamite"  crackers  had  not 
been  invented  then,  and  nobody  got  hurt 
at  all,  —  except  Rob  Currier,  who  burned 
his  thumb  slightly  on  a  piece  of  slow- 
match.  Charley  Carter's  father,  a  man 
of  untold  wealth,  bought  a  dozen  bunches 
of  fire-crackers,  and  fired  them  a  whole 
bunch  at  a  time! 

We  stood   around   in   awe  at  the  de- 


The  Great  Day  95 

lightful  noise  and  the  princely  extrava 
gance  of  it. 

At  noon  all  the  church  bells  rang  for  an 
hour,  and  we  went  down  to  the  foot  of 
River  Street  to  hear  "Gunner  Hunt" 
and  his  assistants  fire  a  salute.  Mr. 
Jones  was  there,  leaning  on  his  Napoleon 
cane,  and  regarding  the  spectacle  with 
a  sarcastic  grin.  It  probably  seemed  a 
pretty  small  business  to  him,  compared 
with  his  famous  battle. 

We  had  ice-cream  for  dinner,  and  straw 
berry  shortcake,  and  ginger-ale.  There 
were  other  things,  —  lamb  and  green 
peas,  I  believe,  in  which  the  grown-ups 
were  interested. 

In  the  afternoon  we  saw  the  flag-rais 
ing  on  the  Mall.  The  Mayor  made  a 
speech,  and  so  did  General  Cogswell, 
but  the  speeches  did  not  appeal  to  us 
especially.  Luckily  a  horse  ran  away, 
so  we  found  some  entertainment.  Then 


96  The  Believing  Years 

Dr.  Macey  treated  us  all  to  lemonade, 
and  more  ice-cream. 

If  we  had  had  any  doubts  of  what 
the  Mayor  said  about  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  being  the  most  important 
event  in  the  history  of  mankind,  such 
doubts  would  have  been  removed. 

In  the  evening,  as  soon  as  it  began  to 
get  dark,  we  joined  the  crowds  wending 
down  Elm  Street  toward  March's  Hill. 

People  who  lived  in  that  neighborhood, 
people  whose  back  yards  afforded  a  good 
view  of  the  fireworks,  found  themselves 
suddenly  popular.  It  was  astonishing 
how  many  friends  they  had.  Acquaint 
ances  whom  they  had  not  seen  for  a  year 
began  to  invade  their  gardens,  shake  hands 
cordially,  and  show  themselves  perfectly 
willing  to  sit  on  their  chairs  and  camp- 
stools,  or  even  their  back  door-steps. 

The  fireworks  passed  off  in  the  usual 
blaze  of  glory,  and  about  half-past  nine 


The  Great  Day  97 

I  walked  wearily  home  with  my  father 
and  mother.  Even  then,  we  could  see, 
through  the  trees  of  Elm  Street,  distant 
rockets  streaming  up  the  sky,  pausing 
for  an  instant,  and  then  vanishing  with 
a  far-off  "T'lock!" 

A  shower  of  sparks  hung  for  a  while 
in  the  sky,  disappeared,  and  left  all  quiet 
and  black,  except  for  the  twinkling  stars. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    GREEN    CHEST 

JIMMY  TOPPAN  was  worth  knowing  for 
the  sake  of  his  grandmothers,  if  for  no 
other  reason.  He  had  two  of  them. 
With  one,  and  a  great-aunt,  he  lived  on 
Elm  Street. 

The  other  grandmother  was  mistress 
of  a  farm  in  the  country,  to  which  we 
often  went.  There  were  uncles  and  aunts 
there,  too,  but  it  was  Grandmother  Top- 
pan  who  seemed  best  to  understand  our 
needs.  When  we  were  at  the  farm  she 
knew  the  exact  hours  (about  eleven  in  the 
morning,  and  again  about  half-past  four 
in  the  afternoon)  when  a  large  slice  of 

apple  pie  is  most  useful. 
98 


The  Green  Chest  99 

Tactfully  and  unfailingly  she  adminis 
tered  it  at  those  times. 

Grandmother  Bradley,  with  whom 
Jimmy  lived,  ran  Grandmother  Toppan 
a  very  close  race.  Her  favorite  remedy 
for  our  troubles  (certain  hollow  feelings 
which  often  afflicted  us)  was  sugar- 
gingerbread.  I  will  leave  it  to  any  one 
if  it  is  possible  to  choose  between  two 
such  excellent  women. 

The  farm  was,  of  course,  a  centre  of 
attractions.  Grandmother  Bradley's  do 
main,  on  a  principal  street  of  the  town, 
was  naturally  circumscribed.  Yet  it  con 
tained  one  object  of  overwhelming  in 
terest. 

In  the  basement  stood  a  green  chest. 
It  was  bumped  and  scarred,  and,  worse 
than  all,  it  was  locked. 

Lovely  things  dwelt  within  it,  so 
Jimmy  said. 

It  had  come  across  the  seas  with  some 


ioo  The  Believing  Years 

far-off  great-uncle,  and  it  was  never 
opened.  But  if  the  cover  should  ever 
be  raised,  he  who  stood  by  should  be 
envied  of  all  boys.  For  inside  was  a  large 
tank,  filled  with  some  liquid,  the  exact 
nature  of  which  Jimmy  never  explained. 
In  this  silvery  fluid  swam  or  floated  all 
manner  of  fairy  shapes.  There  were 
mermaids,  tiny  golden  fishes,  and  other 
strange  inhabitants  of  the  ocean.  Enor 
mous  turtles  reposed  on  the  sands  at  the 
bottom,  and  gay  little  ships  with  bright 
rigging  sailed  overhead. 

All  of  these  delectable  objects  were 
made,  by  the  cunning  of  some  foreign 
workman,  out  of  glass.  The  golden  hair 
of  the  mermaids,  the  scales  of  the  fish, 
the  sand,  the  sea-shells,  the  monstrous 
whales,  the  sword  of  the  swordfish,  the 
flippers  of  the  turtles,  the  little  lighthouse 
that  stood  on  the  shore,  the  beautifully 
colored  seaweeds  that  clustered  about  the 


The  (preen  Chest  :  v.oi 

rocks,  all  of  these  —  even  the  thread 
like  ropes  and  shrouds  of  the  bobbing 
vessels  —  all  were  fashioned  from  brittle 
glass. 

Did  a  boy  ever  have  a  more  tantalizing 
vision  dancing  before  his  eyes  ? 

I  stood  and  gazed  at  that  green  chest. 
A  more  stolid,  unyielding  affair  cannot 
be  imagined.  It  was  dusty,  and  the 
corners  of  it  were  worn  and  rounded. 
The  green  paint  which  had  covered  it  was 
faded,  and  in  many  spots  knocked  off 
altogether.  Sailors'  boots  had  kicked  it? 
perhaps,  or  it  had  rocked  about  some 
cabin  or  hold  when  the  waves  of  the  real 
ocean  had  started  a  miniature  tempest 
on  the  little  sea  within.  What,  then, 
had  prevented  collisions  between  the 
glass  ships,  or  kept  the  mermaids  from 
being  shivered  to  bits  on  the  reef  ? 

Some  glass  sailor  must  have  steered  the 
ships  to  safety,  while  the  mermaids  had 


102  The  Believing  Years 

plunged  beneath  the  waves  to  find  calmer 
water  below. 

The  solution  seemed  to  fit  the  case, 
but  how  was  I  to  prove  it  ?  How  was 
I  to  look  at  any  of  these  charming  things  ? 
The  chest  was  locked,  and  locked  it  was 
likely  to  remain.  A  sort  of  decree  had 
issued  from  Jimmy  Toppan's  great-aunt : 
no  one  was  to  see  the  inside  of  the  chest. 
Nay,  more,  one  must  not  even  ask  about 
it.  It  was  locked  tight,  and  there  was 
an  end  of  it.  I  never  heard  Jimmy's 
great-aunt  say  this ;  I  never  mentioned 
the  chest  in  her  presence.  Nor  did 
Jimmy  say  that  the  unlocking  of  the  chest 
was  forbidden.  He  described  its  con 
tents  in  a  way  to  set  my  imagination 
aflame.  He  did  not  say  definitely  that 
he  had  ever  looked  in  it.  But  he  let  it 
be  known  that  it  held  such  glories  that 
a  glimpse  therein  was  a  vision  of  fairy 
land.  And  he  somehow  cast  an  air  of 


The  Green  Chest  103 

mystery  and  awe  about  it,  till  I  would 
no  more  have  asked  to  have  the  cover 
raised  than  I  would  have  presented 
myself,  snub-nosed  and  with  holes  in  the 
knees  of  my  stockings,  at  the  gates  of 
Paradise  with  a  request  to  be  enrolled 
in  the  cherubs'  chorus. 

I  never  knew  why  there  was  such  a 
curse  upon  the  chest.  But  I  gathered, 
somehow,  that  the  great-uncle,  or  grand 
father,  or  whoever  he  was,  who  had 
brought  it  from  foreign  parts,  had  uttered, 
with  his  dying  breath,  a  solemn  injunc 
tion  that  it  was  to  stay  closed.  The 
opening  of  Pandora's  box  was  to  be  a 
holiday  recreation  compared  to  opening 
that  green  chest.  It  was  no  more  to  be 
disturbed  than  Shakespeare's  bones.  Why 
he  should  have  transported  it  such  a 
distance,  with  such  infinite  care,  and 
then  sealed  it  up  forever,  passed  my 
understanding.  Did  the  prohibition  ex- 


104  The  Believing  Years 

tend  to  grown-ups,  or  was  it  only  for 
boys  ?  That,  also,  I  never  could  find  out. 

I  used  to  fancy  that  Jimmy's  great-aunt 
stole  down  to  the  basement  in  the  dark 
hours  of  night  to  gloat  over  the  silver  sea 
and  its  delicate  inhabitants.  Once,  in 
the  late  afternoon,  I  detected  her  going 
chestwards,  and  I  followed  with  beating 
heart.  I  got  behind  an  apple  barrel  and 
watched  her  movements.  But  she  only 
went  to  an  ice-box,  from  which  she  took 
out  a  plate  of  mutton  chops. 

The  intolerable  curiosity  aroused  in  me 
by  Jimmy's  account  of  the  chest  was 
equalled  only  by  the  fear  I  had  to  make 
any  inquiries  about  it.  I  was  convinced 
that  a  painful  family  secret  overhung  that 
green  chest. 

Night  after  night  I  dreamed  that  I  had 
been  permitted  to  look  within.  Some 
times  it  was  all  I  had  imagined,  and  more. 
The  ships,  the  mermaids,  the  turtles, 


The  Green  Chest  105 

and  all  the  rest  were  there  indeed.  And 
others,  new  and  indescribable  forms, 
floated  or  swam  in  that  enchanted  ocean, 
glittering,  fragile,  wonderful.  I  could 
take  them  in  my  hand,  play  with  them, 
and  set  them  again  in  their  element. 

They  did  not  merely  act  the  lifeless 
part  of  china  figures  in  an  aquarium. 
They  moved  about  with  an  intelligence  of 
their  own ;  the  ships  spread  gauzy  sails 
to  catch  a  magic  wind,  and  flew  before  it. 
The  whales  rose  to  the  surface,  disported 
themselves  heavily,  like  true  whales,  and 
blew  jets  of  spray  into  the  air. 

In  the  midst  of  my  rapture  I  would 
wake;  all  the  glass  toys  vanished,  and  I 
could  have  cried  to  find  them  gone.  In 
the  morning  it  would  be  impossible  to 
recall  these  new  figures.  I  remembered 
them  dimly  and  more  dimly  as  the  hours 
of  the  day  blurred  my  dream.  The  iri 
descent  creatures  turned  to  formless  things 


106  The  Believing  Years 

of  gray  and  drab,  and  then  lost  them 
selves,  to  be  found  again  only  in  another 
dream. 

But  not  all  my  sleeping  experiences 
were  so  happy.  Sometimes  I  would  seem 
to  approach  the  chest  only  to  have 
Jimmy's  great-aunt  rise  from  behind  it, 
shaking  a  broom.  At  other  times  I  would 
lift  the  lid  and  find  inside  the  chest  the 
crouching  figure  of  the  long-departed 
great-uncle.  He  would  jump  out,  gibber 
ing  frightfully,  and  I  would  scream  and 
wake  up.  Thus  the  chest  became  sur 
rounded  by  terrors  even  when  viewed  by 
daylight.  Jimmy's  great-aunt  was  like 
another  dragon  set  over  the  golden  apples. 
She  kept  watch  by  day,  while  at  night 
the  goblin  uncle  came  on  duty. 

So  we  began  to  steer  clear  of  the  green 
chest  and  to  confine  our  activities  to  other 
parts  of  the  basement.  Much  has  been 
written  of  the  joy  that  dwells  in  old  gar- 


The  Green  Chest  107 

rets.  The  basement  is  neglected.  Yet, 
if  dry  and  well  lighted,  it  may  have  its 
points. 

In  this  one  much  importance  was  at 
tached  to  a  plate  of  sand  set  on  a  table. 
This,  so  Jimmy  solemnly  averred,  was  for 
the  purpose  of  discovering  the  presence 
of  mice  in  the  basement.  If  they  ran 
over  the  sand,  their  footprints  would  be 
tray  them,  and  traps  might  be  set.  It 
did  not  occur  to  me  to  marvel  at  the  oblig 
ing  nature  of  mice  who  should  be  at  such 
great  pains  to  record  their  arrival.  Ob 
serving  that  Jimmy's  great-aunt  often 
inspected  the  plate  of  sand  and  smoothed 
its  surface  over  after  each  inspection,  we 
looked  to  it  that  she  should  never  be  dis 
appointed. 

It  is  not  hard  to  counterfeit  small  foot 
prints,  such  as  might  be  made  by  a  scurry 
ing  mouse. 

In    an    adjoining    room    there    was    a 


io8  The  Believing  Years 

steam-boiler  —  part  of  the  heating  appa 
ratus  of  the  house.  The  existence  of 
this  boiler,  the  discovery  of  clay  in  Daven 
port's  field,  and  the  always  present  need 
of  marbles,  these  conditions  led  to  the 
foundation  of  an  enterprise  that  occupied 
a  number  of  days. 

The  clay  was  brought  from  "Daven 
port's,"  and  rolled  into  balls  of  the  proper 
size.  These  were  placed  on  shingles  and 
set  to  bake  beneath  the  boiler. 

Visions  of  revolutionizing  the  marble 
industry  spurred  us  on.  We  calculated 
that  we  could  undersell  the  regular  dealers 
and  that  profits  would  accrue.  But  al 
though  the  clay  balls  were  duly  left  be 
neath  the  boiler  all  night,  there  were  de 
fects  in  the  finished  product.  The  part 
that  had  rested  on  the  shingle  obstinately 
remained  flat.  We  found  no  way  of 
giving  our  marbles  the  glaze  necessary 
to  the  real  thing ;  so  the  dealers  continued 


The  Green  Chest  109 

to  ask  the  exorbitant  sum  of  a  cent  for 
ten,  and  did  not  have  to  break  prices  to 
meet  our  competition. 

It  is  possible  that  the  fact  that  there 
was  no  heat  in  the  boiler  had  something 
to  do  with  this  fiasco. 

After  this,  to  keep  our  minds  from 
wandering  toward  the  green  chest,  we 
started  the  manufacture  of  gunpowder 
on  a  large  scale.  The  raw  material, 
rotting  stone,  could  be  procured  from  the 
sand  heap  and  dump,  which  at  that  date 
(before  the  rise  of  city  improvement  asso 
ciations)  adorned  the  banking  at  the  end 
of  the  frog  pond.  This  dump  had  many 
attractions,  not  the  least  of  which  were 
the  squash  vines  which  trailed  over  it. 
They  never  got  beyond  the  blossoming 
stage,  but  that  did  not  trouble  us.  The 
possession  of  raw  squashes  would  have 
availed  us  little.  The  flowers  were  inter 
esting,  and  I  scarcely  need  to  point  out 


no  The  Believing  Years 

the  value  of  the  stems.  We  cut  a  slit 
near  one  end,  and  they  became  in  our 
hands  trumpets  with  which  to  blow  soul- 
animating  strains.  It  is,  of  course,  neces 
sary  to  scrape  off  the  prickles  with  a  jack- 
knife,  or  the  lips  of  the  performer  are  apt 
to  suffer. 

But  these  were  by  the  way.  The  rot 
ting  stone,  red,  gray,  brown,  and  black, 
was  the  most  valuable  product  of  the 
dump.  We  carried  it  to  a  broad,  flat 
piece  of  slate  which  covered  a  cistern 
just  outside  the  basement  windows. 
Here,  with  hard  rocks,  we  ground  it  fine. 
It  then  became,  by  the  chemistry  which 
worked  so  quickly  in  those  days,  gun 
powder.  The  black  dust  was  the  ordi 
nary  article.  Mixed  with  red  or  other 
colors,  it  was  transformed  into  various 
high  explosives.  Then  we  stored  it  in 
packets  in  the  basement,  where  it  might 
be  drawn  upon  in  case  of  need  —  any 


The  Green  Chest  in 

sudden  attacks  by  Indians  or  pirates,  for 
instance. 

The  day  on  which  we  stored  the  powder 
was  not  long  after  the  Fourth  of  July. 
Our  operations  in  the  basement  had  to 
come  to  an  end  on  that  day,  for  Grand 
mother  Bradley  and  Aunt  Josephine  were 
going  away  for  a  week.  The  house  was 
to  be  closed,  and  Jimmy  would  stay  with 
his  Grandmother  Toppan  in  the  country. 

The  last  time  we  entered  the  basement 
our  eyes  wandered  toward  the  green 
chest.  But  neither  of  us  spoke  about  it. 
I  wondered  if  the  chest  would  be  stolen, 
or  be  burned  up,  or  should  I  die  and  never 
look  inside  it  ?  Already  the  little  glass 
ships  and  fishes  had  become  less  real, 
though  more  beautiful,  than  the  folks 
of  elf-land.  What  small  hope  I  had  ever 
entertained  of  seeing  them  was  dwindling 
to  a  pin-point. 

I  was  never  troubled  by  any  suspicion 


ii2  The  Believing  Years 

that  the  tank,  the  ocean,  and  the  glass 
creatures  existed  only  in  Jimmy's  imagina 
tion.  Such  doubts  did  not  fret  me  then, 
nor  afterwards.  The  green  chest  remained 
one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  believing  years. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHITE    PEACOCKS 

DURING  the  time  that  Jimmy  stayed 
at  his  grandmother's  farm  —  a  period 
that  was  lengthened  to  more  than  two 
weeks  —  we  were  all  agitated  by  the  ap 
proach  of  a  circus.  Excitement  had 
reached  such  a  pitch  that  when,  three 
days  before  circus-day,  Jimmy  invited 
me  to  make  him  a  visit,  I  was  in  some 
doubt  whether  I  ought  to  venture  so  far 
afield. 

But  on  a  solemn  promise  from  Jimmy's 
Uncle  Will  that  he  would  personally  con 
vey  me  home,  behind  one  of  his  own 
horses,  at  least  twenty-four  hours  before 
the  great  event,  I  thought  it  might  be 
safe  to  risk  it.  Jimmy  could  stay  at  the 
i  113 


H4  The  Believing  Years 

farm  (fully  two  miles  away)  until  the 
very  morning,  if  he  liked.  I  preferred  to 
be  nearer  at  hand.  So  to  the  farm  I  went. 

Certainly,  no  other  place  would  have 
tempted  me.  It  was,  to  our  fancies, 
perhaps  the  most  fortunate  spot  on  earth. 
Historians  and  antiquaries  might  deny 
that  it  had  been  the  scene  of  a  proper 
Indian  raid.  We  could  see  the  loopholes 
from  which  the  flintlocks  had  been  fired, 
and  mark  the  small  window  whence  a 
dipperful  of  molten  lead  was  poured,  to 
discourage  an  Indian  whose  anxiety  to 
come  inside  the  house  made  him  indiscreet. 
I  have  never  heard  any  of  the  slaves  to 
fact  assert  that  the  farm-house  might  not 
have  seen  the  tomahawk  flashing  about 
its  walls  and  heard  the  war-whoop  ring 
out. 

It  was  there  in  the  days  of  tomahawks 
and  war-whoops. 

If  the  Indians  had  been  so  inconsiderate 


White  Peacocks  115 

as  to  pass  it  by,  we  were  not  going  to  let 
that  trouble  us.  Certainly,  a  plough  sel 
dom  turned  the  earth  of  the  adjoining 
meadow  without  bringing  to  light  a  flint 
arrow-tip  or  the  head  of  a  stone  axe  — 
weapons  which  even  the  scientific  his 
torian  might  hesitate  to  attribute  to  the 
ministers  and  deacons  of  Puritan  times. 

There  was  the  meadow  itself,  an  enor 
mous  tract  of  land,  as  it  appeared  to  us. 
In  it,  somewhere,  dwelt  the  lord  of  the 
herd,  a  legendary  bull  whose  uncertain 
temper  might  be  aroused  by  the  sight  of 
a  small  boy  wearing  a  plaid  necktie  with  a 
single  spot  of  red  in  it.  He  could  detect 
this  spot  at  half  a  mile,  and  the  boy  had 
better  make  for  the  nearest  fence,  and 
affect  blue  neckties  exclusively  hence 
forth.  Thus  the  crossing  of  the  meadow 
had  that  spice  of  danger  without  which 
life  is  tasteless. 

There  were  other  reasons  for  crossing 


u6  The  Believing  Years 

the  meadow  besides  the  mere  braving  of 
the  bull.  At  its  foot  was  a  pond,  rich 
in  mud  of  primeval  blackness,  and  well 
stocked  with  turtles  and  "green-leapers." 
Farther  on  was  a  bog  and  wood,  deep  and 
gloomy  as  the  magic  forest  of  Broceliande, 
and  not  less  pleasing  to  us  because  it 
went  by  the  more  homely  name  of  Pettin- 
gell's  Swamp.  Crows  built  their  nests  in 
its  trees,  and  without  its  borders  jack-in- 
the-pulpit  held  his  springtime  services. 
Beyond  this,  more  meadows  —  salt  ones 
this  time ;  then  the  river,  the  sand-dunes, 
and  the  ocean. 

The  barns  about  the  farm-house  were 
full  of  sweet-smelling  hay.  You  could 
bore  long  tunnels  through  this,  and  come 
out  with  your  hair  full  of  dust  and  spiders' 
webs.  Certain  cocks  of  salt  hay  stood 
outside.  By  climbing  to  the  top  of  one 
of  them,  sitting  down,  and  sliding  to  the 
bottom  you  could  enjoy  an  exhilarating 


White  Peacocks  117 

exercise.  It  is  only  fair  to  say,  however, 
that  the  salt  water  and  occasional  bit  of 
mud  which  gave  the  hay  its  slipperiness 
had  an  evil  effect  upon  knickerbockers, 
and  furnished  relatives  with  a  subject 
for  wearisome  jest  which  dieth  never. 

Yet  with  all  these  methods  of  entertain 
ment,  Jimmy  and  I  considered  the  pea 
cocks  chief  among  the  attractions  of  his 
grandmother's  farm.  They  did  not  really 
belong  on  the  farm,  but  were  the  prop 
erty  of  Mr.  Bartlett,  who  lived  at  some 
distance.  We  judged  that  the  owner  of 
such  exotic  fowls  must  possess  the  wealth 
of  Ormus  and  of  Ind.  The  birds  them 
selves  were  indifferent  in  the  matter  of 
domicile,  and  spent  most  of  the  day  and 
all  the  night  on  the  Toppans'  land. 

Their  bedtime  was  an  hour  of  unusual 
interest.  They  gathered  about  sunset 
around  a  large  apple  tree  which  stood 
near  one  corner  of  the  farm-house.  There 


n8  The  Believing  Years 

was  much  strutting  and  spreading  of  tails 
among  the  gentlemen  of  the  party;  the 
peahens  moved  about  nervously,  but  with 
less  ostentation.  Both  sexes  raised  dis 
cordant  shrieks  from  time  to  time,  for  no 
purpose  that  we  could  discover. 

When,  one  by  one,  they  had  taken  up 
their  roosting-places  in  the  tree,  they  made 
an  impressive  spectacle,  especially  after 
night  had  fallen,  and  seemed  to  bring 
the  jungles  of  Hindustan  to  our  very  doors. 

They  inspired  a  feeling  of  awe  and 
mystery  because  of  their  radiant  plumage 
and  reputed  value.  It  was  the  venera 
tion  which  we  felt  toward  the  whole  tribe 
that  turned  so  quickly  to  terror  in  the 
matter  of  the  white  peacock. 

The  adventure  flashed  on  us  suddenly 
the  morning  after  my  arrival  at  the  farm. 

In  a  sand-pit  beyond  the  orchard  it  was 
the  immemorial  custom  to  build  fires  and 
roast  potatoes  and  other  eatables.  Marks 


While  Peacocks  119 

of  fires  long  dead  showed  us  that  the 
practice  extended  far  back,  perhaps  to 
the  boys  of  prehistoric  times,  or  to  those 
whose  fathers  had  shot  the  arrows  whereof 
the  flint  heads  lay  beneath  the  surface  of 
the  meadow.  Potatoes  and  apples  were 
placed  in  the  hot  embers,  and  removed  at 
the  end  of  about  twenty  minutes.  The 
apples  were,  by  this  time,  roasted  not 
wisely  but  too  well.  The  potatoes  had 
an  outer  region  of  softness,  but  at  heart 
were  firm  and  unyielding.  Both  were 
so  covered  with  wood  ashes  that  their  con 
sumption  left  streaks  of  soot  all  about  the 
vicinity  of  the  mouth,  extending  back  even 
to  the  ears. 

Potatoes  and  apples,  thus  prepared, 
had  palled  upon  us.  We  sought  for 
variety  in  the  bill  of  fare,  and  this  morn 
ing  Jimmy  proposed  eggs. 

"At  clam-bakes  they  roast  eggs  in  hot 
seaweed,"  declared  Jimmy. 


i2o  The  Believing  Years 

The  idea  was  worthy,  but  eggs  were  not 
so  easy  to  procure.  A  visit  to  the  hen 
house  proved  that  the  day's  supply  had 
already  been  gathered.  Then,  though 
Robinson  Crusoe  would  hardly  have  done 
it,  we  applied  at  the  kitchen.  But  Grand 
mother  Toppan,  who  might  have  hu 
mored  our  whim,  was  away  from  home. 
The  Power  temporarily  in  command 
dismissed  our  request  brusquely :  — 

"Ye  byes  git  outer  here,  now,  or  I'll 
be  afther  takin'  the  paddle  to  yez." 

We  did  not  know  what  paddle  was 
referred  to,  but  we  understood  that  we 
had  leave  to  withdraw.  We  wondered 
if  Robinson  Crusoe  ever  met  with  hu 
miliating  rebuffs  like  that.  It  was  im 
possible  ;  no  tyrannous  cook  could  lord  it 
over  him  while  he  carried  that  long  gun. 

But  we  had  no  gun,  so,  in  dejection 
and  despair,  we  wandered  again  toward 
the  sand-pit.  As  we  crossed  the  orchard, 


White  Peacocks  121 

a  startling  event  occurred.  Some  large 
bird  rustled  off  through  the  grass,  and 
in  the  little  round  hollow  where  she  had 
been  sitting  gleamed  four  white  objects. 
It  was  enough  to  renew  our  trust  in  the 
gods  who  favor  the  romantic  in  their 
everlasting  encounters  with  the  practical 
folk  of  the  world. 

For  here  were  eggs  ! 

And  eggs  obtained  under  conditions 
that  our  friend  Crusoe  need  not  have 
scorned.  To  us  the  adventure  said  in  no 
unmistakable  tones :  Abase  yourself  not 
before  cooks  when  your  spoil  is  at  hand. 
Trust  Providence,  as  did  the  Swiss  Family 
Robinson. 

We  hurried  to  the  sand-pit,  kindled  the 
fire,  and  put  in  the  eggs.  I  refuse  to 
dwell  upon  their  condition  when  we  took 
them  out,  or  on  the  difficulty  attendant 
upon  eating  the  two  that  remained  un 
broken,  or  what  these  tasted  like. 


122  The  Believing  Years 

People  who  think  that  the  carnal  joy  of 
eating  is  of  much  importance  at  these 
camp-fires  have  vulgar,  prosaic  minds. 

We  heard  the  dinner-bell  ringing  just 
as  we  disposed  of  the  second  egg,  and 
we  hurried  toward  the  house. 

Ten  minutes  later  (for  it  takes  some 
time  to  remove  from  one's  face  and 
hands  the  evidences  of  a  feast  of  roasted 
eggs)  we  appeared  at  the  dinner-table. 
It  was  a  long  one,  with  Uncle  Will  at 
one  end,  Uncle  Charley  at  the  other. 
The  eggs  had  not  spoiled  our  appetites, 
and  we  ate,  with  nothing  to  disturb  our 
pleasure,  up  to  the  point  when  blueberry 
pie  came  on.  Then  Uncle  Will,  his 
carving  duties  over,  and  his  own  share  of 
the  dinner  consumed,  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  addressed  Uncle  Charley:  — 

"I  was  over  at  Bartlett's  last  night." 

"That  so  ?"  returned  Uncle  Charley. 
"Did  you  speak  about  the  peacocks  ?" 


White  Peacocks  123 

"About  the  peahen  that's  setting  in 
the  orchard  ?  Yes.  He  knew  she  had 
been  setting  there  on  nothing  for  three 
days.  The  eggs  came  from  New  York 
yesterday,  and  he  said  he  was  going  to 
send  Foley  over  with  them  this  morning." 

Aunt  Ellen  showed  an  interest  in  the 
conversation.  "Eggs  from  New  York  ?" 
she  queried. 

"Yes,"  replied  Uncle  Will;  "from 
the  Zoo.  They're  peacocks'  eggs.  White 
peacocks,  too.  They  cost  him  ten  dollars 
apiece  —  forty  dollars  for  the  four.  I 
told  him  'twas  a  risky  thing  to  leave  them 
out  in  the  orchard.  Said  /  wouldn't  be 
responsible.  Bartlett  said  the  peahen 
wouldn't  set  anywhere  else.  He'd  have 
to  take  the  chance.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  a  man  like  that  ?" 

I  glanced  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye 
at  Jimmy  Toppan.  He  was  trying  to 
insert  a  piece  of  blueberry  pie  in  his 


124  The  Believing  Years 

mouth.  Three  times  he  made  the  at 
tempt,  and  each  time  his  aim  was  poor. 
I  had  a  feeling  as  if  my  chair  were  sink 
ing  beneath  me.  The  dining-room  and 
the  whole  family  of  Toppans  revolved 
about  me  in  a  blur. 

Peacocks'  eggs!     Forty  dollars! 

I  have  no  recollection  of  the  rest  of  the 
meal.  The  elder  Toppans  talked  to 
gether,  I  believe,  but  on  what  subject  I 
have  not  the  faintest  notion. 

In  five  or  six  minutes  Jimmy  and  I  were 
safely  over  the  fence  and  running  across 
the  meadow.  We  had  to  stop  once  or 
twice  for  breath,  but  we  covered  the  dis 
tance  to  the  wooded  swamp  in  record 
time.  Back  of  a  large  oak,  where  we 
were  nearly  covered  by  ferns,  we  stopped 
and  panted. 

Jimmy  spoke  first. 

"They  don't  hang  people  under  sixteen 
years  old,"  he  said. 


White  Peacocks  125 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"I'm  sure,"  he  replied. 

"They  put  ?em  in  prison,  though,"  I 
remarked,  "for  life!" 

"  What'll  we  do  ?"  asked  Jimmy. 

We  debated  the  question  from  every 
point  of  view.  Of  one  thing  we  were 
determined :  we  would  never  be  taken 
alive. 

"There's  the  circus,"  I  suggested. 
"Don't  you  suppose  we  could  join  that  ?" 

"Like  Toby  Tyler?  He  had  a  hor 
rible  time  !" 

"It's  better  than  stayin'  all  your  life  in 
a  dungeon  on  bread  and  water  hollowed 
out  of  the  living  rock,"  I  reminded 
him. 

"I'd  have  to  go  home  first  and  get 
my  decalcomania  book,"  Jimmy  stipu 
lated. 

"Well,  that  will  be  all  right;  I'll  get 
my  punch." 


126  The  Believing  Years 

About  my  most  cherished  possession 
was  a  discarded  punch,  formerly  used  by 
a  real  conductor  on  a  train.  It  seemed 
that  I  ought  not  present  myself  to  the 
circus  people  empty-handed  if  Jimmy 
were  going  to  bring  his  book  of  decalco- 
manias.  It  struck  me  that  I  might  be 
especially  welcome,  as  a  ticket-taker,  if 
I  had  a  punch.  I  could  work  in  that 
capacity  while  I  was  learning  to  ride 
bareback,  or  qualifying  for  the  position 
of  ring-master,  or  perhaps  —  so  high 
do  one's  air-castles  tower  —  that  of 
clown  ! 

Why  not  ?     Others  had  achieved  it. 

We  decided  to  leave  our  refuge  in  the 
swamp,  sneak  up  the  meadow,  pass  the 
farm  by  a  back  route,  and  so  to  the  high 
road  and  home.  Then,  separating  long 
enough  to  get  the  decalcomania  book  and 
the  punch,  we  could  camp  for  a  night  or 
two  in  Davenport's  field,  and  join  the 


White  Peacocks  127 

circus  in  the  morning.  By  the  time  the 
peacocks'  eggs  were  missed  we  would  be 
far  away. 

The  first  part  of  the  plan  was  carried 
out.  We  crossed  the  meadow  stealthily, 
creeping  a  greater  part  of  the  way  on 
our  hands  and  knees.  Once  in  a  while, 
when  this  got  tiresome,  we  would  rise 
and  walk  in  the  normal  fashion,  which 
was  probably  just  as  safe,  for  there  was 
no  one  within  half  a  mile. 

As  we  slunk  by.  the  rear  of  the  barn  we 
came  suddenly  on  Mr.  Bartlett  and  his 
man,  Foley.  There  was  no  time  to  run. 
Mr.  Bartlett  addressed  us  genially. 

"  Hullo,  boys  !  Want  to  see  some 
thing  ?  Look  in  this  box.  Peacocks' 
eggs  —  white  peacocks,  too.  Very  rare. 
We're  going  to  set  them  under  that  pea 
hen  in  the  orchard.  I  suppose  she's 
there  all  right,  Foley  ?" 

"Yis,  sorr.     She  was   at   foive  o'clock 


128  The  Believing  Years 

this  marning,  sorr.  Oi  give  her  four 
ducks'  eggs  to  kape  her  continted-loike." 

"All  right,  then.  Come  on,  boys. 
We'll  see  how  she's  getting  on.  We'll 
have  to  set  a  guard  around  her  while  she 
hatches  these  out.  They're  too  valuable 
to  risk.  Do  you  suppose  she'd  stand  for 
it  if  we  put  up  a  little  tent  around  her, 
Foley  ?  Big  nuisance  she  won't  set  in 
some  convenient  place." 

Mr.  Bartlett  and  Foley  walked  on 
ahead,  discussing  ways  and  means  for 
protecting  the  peahen  against  marauders. 
We  followed,  a  dozen  steps  behind.  The 
shadow  of  the  dungeon  fell  no  longer 
upon  our  path,  and  there  was  no  necessity 
for  joining  the  circus.  We  did  not  admit 
it  to  each  other,  but  we  felt  it  to  be  a 
happy  release. 

In  a  moment  we  heard  Foley's  voice. 

"Here  she  is,  sorr.  An'  settin'  on 
nothin'  again.  Phwhere's  thim  ducks' 


White  Peacocks  129 

eggs  gone,  Oi  dunno.  Somebody's 
shtole  thim,  fir  the  birrd  niver  ate  thim, 
shills  an'  all.  'Twill  niver  do  to  lave 
thim  ixpinsive  eggs  here,  sorr  ! " 

Jimmy  Toppan  and  I  maintained  ex 
pressions  of  innocent  wonder. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    FLIGHT 

THE  day  before  the  circus  found  me  at 
home  again.  Without  delay  I  set  out  to 
find  Ed  Mason,  Charley  Carter,  and  any 
of  the  others  who  could  give  me  the  latest 
information  on  the  topic  that  absorbed 
us  all. 

For,  since  the  Fourth  of  July,  there  had 
been  nothing  so  important  as  the  ap 
proach  of  this  circus.  For  two  weeks 
we  had  studied  the  posters.  Whether 
the  hippopotamus  would  in  very  truth 
have  a  mouth  somewhat  larger  than  the 
door  of  the  barn  to  which  his  portrait 
was  affixed ;  whether  the  head  of  the 
giraffe  would  actually  soar  above  the 
clouds,  as  represented ;  and  whether  a 
130 


The  Flight  131 

beautiful  lady  would  indeed  stand  on 
the  tip  of  an  elephant's  trunk  and  airily 
juggle  three  baby  lions  and  a  Japanese 
parasol  —  these  problems  had  vexed  us 
for  fourteen  long  days. 

Charley  Carter  stuck  out  for  the  literal 
accuracy  of  the  posters. 

"  'Cos  if  it  wasn't  so,  they  wouldn't 
dare  to  print  'em  —  it's  against  the  law." 

This  was  his  argument.  Truth  to  say, 
none  of  us  were  strongly  inclined  to  op 
pose  him.  We  were  more  than  willing 
to  accept  the  pictures  as  photographic. 

This  point  decided  without  further  dis 
cussion,  we  could  devote  our  meditations 
to  the  circus  itself.  We  could  lay  our 
plans  and  dream  our  dreams  in  all  felicity. 

To  hear  some  of  these  plans  I  started 
toward  the  Carters',  and  fell  in  with  Ed 
Mason  on  the  way.  In  his  garden  we 
found  Charley  Carter,  who  told  us  of  his 
own  and  ether  boys'  projects. 


132  The  Believing  Years 

Rob  Currier  would  rise,  it  seemed, 
before  three  o'clock  on  the  morrow,  and 
go  with  his  father  to  watch  the  unloading 
of  the  circus.  Our  desire  to  join  in  this 
expedition  subsided  when  Charley  related 
his  adventures  at  a  similar  treat  the  year 
before.  It  was  true  that  he  had  observed 
the  dim  but  mountainous  forms  of  ele 
phants  and  camels  outlined  against  the 
dawn,  but  he  had  also  slipped  on  the  car 
track  and  so  sprained  his  ankle  that  he 
had  to  forego,  not  only  the  great  street 
parade  at  10  A.M.,  but  the  show  itself  in 
the  afternoon.  The  possibility  of  any 
such  tragic  occurrence  made  Ed  Mason 
and  me  decide  to  let  the  circus  unload  as 
best  it  could  without  our  assistance. 

But  on  this,  the  very  day  before  the 
circus  would  exhibit,  we  were  smitten  by 
an  unexpected  grief.  Charley  Carter 
started  the  ball  of  trouble  rolling. 

"Are  you  fellers  goin'  to  the  side 
show  ?"  he  asked. 


The  Flight  133 

And  he  added,  complacently,  "/  am." 
We  had  not  considered  the  matter.  We 
supposed  we  were  going.  The  pictures 
representing  the  attractions  of  the  side 
show  recurred  to  us,  and  straightway  it 
became  an  imperative  necessity  that  we 
find  out  if  we  were  going  to  see  these 
wonders. 

We  repaired  to  our  respective  homes, 
but  were  soon  back  at  the  place  of  meet 
ing  with  dolorous  faces.  The  parental 
mind  in  the  House  of  Edwards  was  at 
one  with  that  in  the  House  of  Mason. 
The  street  parade  in  the  morning  we 
should  see,  and  we  should  be  suitably 
provided  with  red  or  green  balloons  for 
the  more  complete  enjoyment  of  the 
spectacle.  To  the  afternoon  performance 
we  should  go,  pockets  filled  with  the 
peanuts  of  Mr.  Mazzoni,  who  sold  much 
better  peanuts  than  the  half-baked  things 
supplied  by  the  circus  venders.  These  we 


134  The  Believing  Years 

might  share,  if  we  felt  so  disposed,  with 
the  elephants.  Pink  lemonade  we  should 
not  imbibe,  as  it  was  "miserable  stuff." 
And  the  side-show  we  should  not  enter, 
as  it  was  "vulgar." 

Such  were  the  terms  of  the  ultimatum. 
To  article  one,  concerning  the  street 
parade  and  the  balloons,  we  signified  our 
assent.  To  the  second  article,  concern 
ing  peanuts,  we  also  assented.  Article 
three,  which  forbade  pink  lemonade,  was 
accepted  with  the  understanding  that  we 
yielded  to  superior  force.  But  to  the 
final  article,  prohibiting  the  side-show, 
we  entered  an  indignant  protest. 

It  was  promptly  overruled. 

Can  one  conceive  a  more  irrational 
position  ?  What  was  this  thing,  vul 
garity,  which  before  now  had  stood 
in  our  path  ?  Had  the  extra  cost  of 
admission  to  the  side-show  been  the 
cause  for  the  refusal,  we  could  have 


The  Flight  135 

understood,  even  while  regretting,  the 
parental  attitude. 

But    vulgarity  —  what    was    it  ? 

To  us  the  different  exhibits  of  the  show, 
as  portrayed  upon  the  posters,  were  both 
curious  and  wonderful.  Were  we  not 
men  and  philosophers,  passengers  through 
life,  and  observers  of  the  human  show  ? 
Was  it  not  our  bounden  duty  to  see  all 
that  was  strange  and  marvelous  in  this 
great  world  ?  Well,  then,  by  what  right 
did  our  tyrants  act  ?  We  were  of  the 
human  race,  and  held  none  of  its  members 
alien. 

Though  it  might  be  questioned  if  the 
dog-faced  boy,  the  genuine  mermaid,  the 
lady  with  a  body  like  a  serpent,  and  the 
man  of  india-rubber  skin,  came  unre 
servedly  into  the  category  of  human 
creatures  —  still  such  objections  were 
mere  quibbles.  A  golden  opportunity 
for  delight  and  self-improvement  was 


136  The  Believing  Years 

being  denied  us,  and  for  the  flimsiest  of 
reasons,  so  we  straightway  raised  the 
standard  of  revolt  and  nailed  it  to  the 
mast. 

"Let's  run  away  !"  said  Ed  Mason. 

Really,  it  seemed  the  only  possible 
suggestion.  When  you  have  simply  got 
to  reduce  your  hard-hearted  parents  to 
contrition,  milk-and-water  methods  are 
useless.  A  blow  must  be  struck  —  sharp 
and  decisive.  Then  they  will  recognize 
your  value,  be  properly  humbled,  and 
come  around  to  a  correct  view  of  things. 

Running  away  from  home  is  at  once 
the  boldest  of  strokes  and  the  most  subtle 
form  of  revenge.  It  asserts  your  inde 
pendence  at  the  same  time  that  it  reduces 
your  parents  to  humility. 

We  decided  upon  it,  and  then  and  there 
fixed  the  hour  of  five  that  afternoon  as 
the  time  of  our  departure  from  home  and 
kindred.  We  would  sever  all  the  ties 


The  Flight  137 

that  bound  us  to  civilization,  and  plunge 
into  the  trackless  wilds. 

Prompt  to  the  hour,  I  met  the  resolute 
Mason  on  the  farther  side  of  the  frog 
pond.  He  was  simply  yet  appropriately 
equipped  with  a  cap-pistol,  and  two  ba 
nanas  for  provender  while  crossing  the 
wilderness. 

I  carried  a  light  sling-shot  and  a  pack 
age  of  soda-biscuit.  Game  —  partridges, 
antelopes,  and  other  creatures  —  might  be 
slain  en  route ;  while  our  thirst  could  be 
slaked  at  the  brooks  and  streams. 

We  set  out  in  silence,  as  became  our 
high  purpose.  In  a  little  over  an  hour 
we  had  penetrated  the  desert  as  far  as 
Brown's  ice-house,  and  there  we  decided 
to  camp  for  the  night.  We  had  encoun 
tered  no  antelopes,  buffaloes,  nor  other 
animals,  except  a  herd  of  cows  belonging 
to  Mr.  Haskell.  They  were  being  driven 
home  by  a  small  boy. 


138  The  Believing  Years 

In  a  little  grove  of  trees  back  of  the 
ice-house  we  sat  down  and  made  our 
supper  of  bananas  and  soda-biscuit.  The 
ice-pond  provided  water  to  wash  down 
the  meal.  We  faced  the  west,  and  re 
ceived  full  in  our  eyes  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  now  rapidly  approaching  the  earth. 

For  a  time  we  beheld  the  spectacle  of 
the  sunset,  though  our  minds  were  not 
upon  it.  We  conversed  upon  the  possi 
bilities  of  adventure  in  the  Far  West, 
upon  the  circus  which  we  were  leaving 
behind,  and,  most  of  all,  of  the  excitement 
probably  now  rife  in  our  homes.  Ed 
Mason,  it  appeared,  had  left  a  note  be 
hind  him  to  inform  his  family  of  our  de 
parture,  of  the  utter  folly  of  any  attempt 
at  pursuit,  and  of  the  fact  that  our  first 
stopping-place  would  be  Omaha. 

Why  he  fixed  upon  Omaha,  except  that 
it  is  remote  from  our  home  on  the  Atlan 
tic  coast,  I  am  unable  to  explain. 


The  Flight  139 

By  this  time,  we  agreed,  our  families 
had  begun  to  wish  that  they  had  treated 
us  better  in  the  matter  of  that  side-show. 

Some  low  hills  rose  upon  the  western 
horizon,  and  the  sun  disappeared  behind 
them  not  long  after  we  had  finished  sup 
per.  It  cast  a  golden  outline  on  a  strange 
procession  of  dark  gray  clouds  which  now 
came  out  of  the  north  and  moved  slowly 
across  the  place  lately  occupied  by  the 
ball  of  fire.  They  followed  one  after  the 
other  like  uncouth  animals  —  the  drome 
dary  with  his  hump  was  there,  the  ele 
phant,  and  other  figures,  longer  and 
lower,  like  serpents  and  lizards. 

We  watched  them  without  speaking. 

A  faint  breeze  moved  the  branches  of 
the  apple  tree  over  our  heads.  It  was 
perceptibly  darker  now,  and  not  easy  to 
make  out  the  details  of  the  fields  and 
meadows.  Two  men  passed  along  the 
dusty  road  on  the  other  side  of  the  stone 


140  The  Believing  Years 

wall.  They  did  not  notice  us,  but  we 
heard  them  discussing  a  dog  after  they 
had  vanished  from  sight.  The  sky  in  the 
east  and  north  turned  rosy,  and  its  colors 
were  reflected  in  the  pond.  A  man  with 
a  lantern  moved  about  Mr.  Brown's 
barnyard  for  a  while,  then  disappeared 
indoors,  and  presently  a  light  shone  from 
one  of  the  windows  of  the  house. 

The  glow  in  the  west;  the  pageant  of 
clouds,  whose  fiery  edges  had  grown  dim 
mer;  the  immensity  of  the  overarching 
sky,  still  turquoise-colored  —  all  these, 
together  with  the  disappearance  of  the 
familiar  landscape,  conspired  to  make  the 
two  outlaws  under  the  apple  tree  feel 
rather  diminutive.  The  swallows  had 
ceased  their  flight  and  gone  to  bed.  Two 
or  three  robins  screamed  excitedly  for  a 
while,  and  darted  in  apparent  hurry  from 
tree  to  tree.  Finally  they  became  quiet, 
except  for  an  occasional  outburst  of  twit- 


The  Flight  141 

tering.  Two  bats  began  to  flutter  about, 
with  their  high,  thin,  squeaking  cries  like 
the  opening  and  shutting  of  a  new  pair  of 
scissors. 

The  darkness  was  far  advanced ;  three 
or  four  stars  were  visible,  and  the  pink 
tint  had  faded  from  the  sky.  The  pond 
gleamed  like  silver,  but  its  banks  were 
black  and  mysterious. 

"We  ought  to  start  awful  early  in  the 
mornin',"  said  Ed  Mason;  "p Yaps  we 
better  go  to  bed  now." 

He  began  this  remark  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  fearfully  loud,  but  said  the  clos 
ing  words  in  a  whisper. 

"PYaps  we  had,"  I  agreed,  —  also  in 
a  whisper. 

There  was  no  one  within  hearing :  it 
seemed  strange  that  we  should  have  to 
whisper. 

In  another  way,  however,  it  appeared 
quite  proper  to  whisper. 


142  The  Believing  Years 

I  was  reflecting  that,  aside  from  a  night 
spent  in  a  tent  with  two  or  three  other 
boys,  in  Peter  Bailey's  garden,  I  had 
never  slept  outdoors.  It  also  occurred  to 
me  that  we  had  no  bedclothes  nor  pil 
lows.  We  had  blankets  that  night  in  the 
tent,  and  made  pillows  out  of  piles  of  hay. 
The  hay  tickled  the  back  of  your  neck 
somewhat,  but  otherwise  it  was  all  right. 

"We  might  sleep  in  Brown's  barn,"  I 
suggested. 

"That's  so,"  Ed  replied. 

Then  an  afterthought  struck  him. 

"No;   we   couldn't   do   that." 

"I  don't  see  why  not." 

"Why,  of  course  we  couldn't.  There 
ain't  any  barns  on  the  prairies  !" 

I  had  never  thought  of  that. 

The  objection  was  unanswerable. 

"Besides,"  pursued  Ed,  with  something 
like  a  shudder,  "tramps  sleep  in  these 
barns." 


The  Flight  143 

I  abandoned  the  plan  hastily. 

"Could  we  get  some  hay  from  the 
barn?"  I  wondered;  "there  won't  be 
any  tramps  in  there  now,  will  there  ?" 

"I  guess  not.  We  needn't  go  all  the 
way  in,  —  we  can  reach  some  by  just 
openin'  the  door." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  rising  when 
another  objection  occurred  to  me. 

"Maybe    Mr.     Brown    wouldn't    like 


it." 


"He  hasn't  any  right  to  say  anything 
'bout  it.  In  time  of  war  they  take  what 
they  want,  don't  they  ?  They  make  a 
forced  levi." 

This  subject  of  the  forced  "levi"  had 
been  discussed  amongst  us  at  some  length 
in  connection  with  Mr.  Hawkins'  cher 
ries.  Jimmy  Toppan  and  Rob  Currier 
had  the  impression  that  it  had  something 
to  do  with  a  clothing  dealer  on  Main 
Street. 


144  The  Believing  Years 

"Anyway,"  Ed  remarked,  "we  can  put 
the  hay  back  in  the  morning." 

This  seemed  to  be  a  reasonable  solu 
tion  in  order  to  keep  our  career  as  out 
laws  on  a  moral  basis.  So  we  arose  and 
started  cautiously  for  the  barn.  Before 
we  had  taken  five  steps  in  that  direction, 
a  voice  spoke.  It  was  a  deep,  resonant 
voice,  charged  with  authority  and  men 
ace.  The  word  or  phrase  that  it  uttered 
was  not,  it  seemed  to  us,  especially  rele 
vant,  but  there  could  be  no  mistaking  the 
import  of  its  accent  and  tone.  It  came 
from  the  earth,  from  the  sky,  from  no 
where  in  particular  and  from  everywhere 
in  general. 

It  said:  "Ker-r-rum!" 

Having  said  this,  it  was  instantly  silent. 
The  final  syllable  ended  suddenly,  but  yet 
with  a  twang  as  if  some  giant  had  touched 
the  string  of  a  great  instrument. 

The  hush  that  ensued  was   appalling. 


The  Flight  145 

I  had  sat  down,  as  if  struck  to  the  earth, 
the  moment  I  heard  the  awful  sound,  and 
now  I  tried  to  address  Ed  Mason,  who 
was  leaning  faintly  against  a  tree.  But  I 
made  three  efforts  before  my  vocal  ap 
paratus  responded. 

"Wh-whatwasit?"Iasked. 

He  turned  toward  me,  and  said  some 
thing  in  a  whisper,  which  I  could  not 
make  out.  I  sat  still  for  a  moment 
longer,  then  hitched  myself  toward  him 
and  repeated  my  question. 

But  he  could  not  answer  me. 

Neither  could  he  say  whence  the  sound 
came.  That  was  the  horrible  part  of  it 
—  the  vague  immensity  of  the  note.  We 
remained  motionless  for  what  we  thought 
a  long  time. 

Then  Ed  suggested  that  we  move 
our  camp.  Immediately  the  problem 
arose :  in  which  direction  should  we 
move  ?  While  we  deliberated,  in  whis- 


146  The  Believing  Years 

pers,  suddenly  again,  ominous  and 
terrible :  — 

"K'r-rum!" 

That  sufficed.  In  three  seconds  we 
were  over  the  wall  and  running  at  full 
speed  along  the  highway.  At  the  cross 
roads,  an  eighth  of  a  mile  away,  we  saw 
the  lights  of  a  buggy.  It  contained  cer 
tain  male  relatives. 

"Hello,  boys  !     Going  home  ?" 

We  admitted  that  that  was  our  desti 
nation. 


CHAPTER  XI 

UP    LIKE    A    ROCKET 

ON  the  morning  following  our  return 
from  the  flight,  there  was  an  uncomfort 
able  chill  about  my  house.  When  I  met 
Ed  Mason,  I  found  that  he  had  noticed 
the  same  coolness  in  his  home.  Nothing 
was  said,  no  reproaches  were  cast  upon  us 
for  our  trip  towards  Omaha  and  the  great 
West,  but  I  understood,  somehow,  that 
I  should  not  be  invited  to  attend  the  cir 
cus  in  the  afternoon.  The  necessary 
half-dollar  did  not  make  its  appearance. 
Ed  reported  a  similar  state  of  affairs. 

This  was  simply  tragic. 

We  took  counsel,  and  decided  that  in 
Horace  Winslow,  if  anywhere,  lay  our 
salvation.  He  was  a  person  of  stratagem, 
147 


148  The  Believing  Years 

of  plans  and  plots,  and  he  might  be  able 
to  show  us  a  way  out  of  trouble.  More 
over,  he  had  let  drop  some  mysterious 
hints  of  influence  which  he  expected  to 
possess  with  the  circus  people.  More 
than  a  week  before  he  had  darkly  sug 
gested  that  he  might  be  connected  in  no 
inconspicuous  position  with  the  coming 
show. 

His  utterances  returned  to  us  now. 

"Let's  go  over  and  see  him,"  I  sug 
gested. 

"All  right,"  Ed  Mason  agreed;  "or, 
say,  you're  goin'  over  to  stand  on  the 
bank  steps  at  ten  o'clock  to  see  the  parade, 
ain't  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  we'll  see  Horace  there,  sure,  — 
he  always  goes." 

And  it  was  so  decided. 

Before  ten  o'clock  we  all  set  out  for 
Main  Street,  —  Ed  Mason,  Rob  Currier, 


Up  Like  a  Rocket  149 

Peter  Bailey,  and  myself,  together  with 
an  unavoidable  convoy  of  small  sisters 
and  other  relatives.  The  streets  had 
that  appearance  which  circus  day  and  no 
other  always  brought.  Toy  balloon  men 
and  sellers  of  paper  whirligigs  wandered 
up  and  down,  and  strange  looking  persons, 
clutching  children  with  one  hand  and 
paper  bags  of  luncheon  with  the  other, 
stood  or  sat  on  the  grass  bankings,  edge- 
stones,  and  lawns,  in  front  of  the  houses. 

Through  a  sort  of  family  privilege 
enjoyed  by  Peter  Bailey,  and  always 
exercised  on  such  occasions,  we  took  up 
our  position  on  the  steps  of  the  Mer- 
rimack  Bank.  Mr.  Vincent,  Horace's 
uncle,  could  be  seen  at  his  duties  inside 
the  bank,  but  he  did  not  come  out.  Circus 
processions  did  not  interest  him. 

Horace  was  unaccountably  absent. 

There  were  two  or  three  false  alarms, 
two  or  three  mistaken  announcements 


150  The  Believing  Years 

by  members  of  the  crowd:  "Here  they 
come!"  Twice  we  thought  we  heard  in 
the  distance  the  faint  blare  of  brass  in 
struments,  as  well  as  a  deeper  sound 
which  Ed  Mason  declared  to  be  the  roar 
ing  of  lions. 

But  at  last  they  did  come.  Majes 
tically,  and  with  clashing  cymbals,  they 
descended  Main  Street. 

At  the  head  was  a  gorgeous  wagon 
carrying  a  brass  band.  The  men  were 
in  red  coats,  and  they  blew  their  trom 
bones  and  cornets  and  beat  their  drums 
with  the  utmost  vigor.  A  cavalcade 
followed,  and  then  came  four  or  five 
large  and  gayly  painted  carts,  containing, 
so  the  pictures  and  legends  indicated,  the 
blood-sweating  behemoth,  the  laughing 
hyenas,  two  Nubian  lions,  and  the  man- 
eating  tiger  of  Bengal.  But  the  carts 
were  all  closed,  and  the  blood-sweating 
behemoth,  if  he  were  there,  gave  no  sign. 


Up  Like  a  Rocket  151 

Nor  did  the  other  animals.  We  had  to 
be  contented  with  their  painted  like 
nesses  on  the  sides  of  the  carts. 

"Do  you  suppose  they're  inside  there, 
now?"  asked  Rob  Currier's  small  sister 
in  a  hushed  voice. 

"Of  course  they  are,"  Ed  Mason  as 
sured  her  scornfully;  "I  saw  one  of  the 
hyenas  through  a  crack  when  they  went 
by." 

"Look!"  said  Peter  Bailey.  "Here 
comes  the  steam  calli-ope!" 

Sure  enough,  there  it  was.  A  man  in 
overalls  was  energetically  shovelling  coal 
into  the  boiler,  and  a  charming  lady  with 
very  pink  cheeks  sat  at  the  keys.  As  the 
thing  came  opposite  us,  she  began  to  play, 
and  every  ear  in  the  vicinity  was  split 
as  with  ten  thousand  steam  whistles  hoot 
ing  out  "Climbing  Up  Dem  Golden 
Stairs."  The  noise  was  deafening,  and 
each  boy  of  us  resolved  that  if  he  ever 


152  The  Believing  Years 

became  rich,  the  first  thing  he  would  buy 
would  be  one  of  those  delightful  contriv 
ances.  Then  he  had  only  to  hire  a  man 
to  shovel  coal  into  it,  and  he  might  sit 
all  day  and  dispense  music  for  miles  in 
every  direction. 

The  calliope  passed,  as  all  beautiful 
things  do,  and  our  attention  was  dis 
tracted  by  a  herd  of  elephants,  who 
slouched  along,  dusty  and  morose.  Then 
came  some  more  carts  of  animals,  and 
then  a  brilliant  zebra  led  by  a  boy  in  a 
red  coat. 

This  boy  looked  up  at  us,  grinned  joy 
fully,  and  waved  his  hand. 

"Why,  it's  Horace  Winslow!"  some 
one  exclaimed. 

It  was  indeed  Horace.  The  red  coat 
was  evidently  intended  for  a  fair-sized 
man,  for  it  hung  below  Horace's  knees 
and  gave  him  the  appearance  of  wearing 
a  single  garment  like  a  tunic.  On  his 


Up  Like  a  Rocket  153 

head  was  rakishly  perched  a  small  red 
cap,  similar  to  those  affected  by  the 
monkeys  who  travel  with  hand-organs. 
Horace's  face  was  warm  and  perspiring, 
and  a  good  deal  of  dust,  aroused  by  the 
elephants  and  the  carts,  had  adhered  to 
it.  But  it  was  plainly  the  supreme 
moment  of  his  life,  and  no  fussy  consid 
erations  of  cleanliness  annoyed  him  in 
the  least.  Was  he  not  a  feature  in  a 
genuine  circus  procession,  marching  with 
the  clown,  with  real  elephants,  and  lead 
ing  a  proud  and  striped  zebra  with  his 
own  hand  ? 

He  grinned  again,  and  waved  his  hand 
to  us  once  more.  We  were  petrified  with 
amazement  and  envy.  At  that  moment 
Mr.  Vincent,  cool  and  placid  in  seersucker 
clothes,  stepped  out  of  the  bank.  He 
was  going  down  the  street  on  some  busi 
ness  errand,  and  he  paused  for  a  moment 
and  gazed  indulgently  at  the  procession. 


154  The  Believing  Years 

"There's  Horace,  Mr.  Vincent!"  we 
all  shouted. 

We  were  determined  that  he  should 
know  of  this  honor  that  had  come  upon 
his  family.  It  was  a  fine  thing  to  be 
cashier  of  the  Merrimack  Bank,  the 
trusted  guardian  of  thousands  of  dollars, 
but  was  not  this  mere  dust  and  ashes 
compared  with  leading  a  zebra  in  a  circus 
procession  ?  If  each  generation  of  his 
family  were  to  rise  in  this  manner,  where 
might  they  not  end  ? 

Mr.  Vincent  smiled  at  us,  and  said  : 
"What?" 

"There's  Horace!"  we  all  screamed, 
pointing  our  fingers  ;  "don't  you  see  him  ? 
Leading  the  zebra  !" 

By  this  time  Mr.  Vincent  had  adjusted 
his  eye-glasses,  and  as  he  looked  in  the 
direction  of  his  glorified  nephew,  that 
personage  turned  around  for  one  final 
grin  and  wave  of  the  hand.  The  change 


Up  Like  a  Rocket  155 

in  expression  on  the  visage  of  the  bank- 
cashier  was  extraordinary.  From  mild 
benignity  it  turned  to  purple-faced  con 
sternation. 

"What?"  he  gasped;  "what?  My 
Horace?" 

Then  he  descended  the  steps  swiftly, 
and  plunged  into  the  crowd  on  the  side 
walk.  Apparently  he  was  bent  on  over 
taking  his  nephew,  but  the  throng  blocked 
his  way,  and  Horace  had  turned  the 
corner  of  the  next  street  before  his  uncle 
could  reach  him. 

Ed  Mason  and  I  did  not  waste  time 
watching  him,  for  we  were  discussing 
a  plan.  It  seemed  to  promise  success, 
and  we  only  waited  for  the  end  of  the 
procession  to  pass  before  putting  it  into 
operation.  Then  we  detached  ourselves 
from  the  others,  and  hastened  through 
Main  Street  to  HaskelPs  Field,  where  the 
tents  were  pitched  for  the  great  show  in 


156  The  Believing  Years 

the  afternoon.  The  field  was  nearly 
a  mile  distant,  and  the  leaders  of  the 
procession  had  already  begun  to  arrive 
when  we  got  there.  We  wormed  our 
selves  in  between  carts  and  piles  of  hay, 
amongst  horses,  venders  of  lemonade  and 
peanuts,  and  dozens  of  boys  and  men. 
Horace  and  his  zebra  soon  arrived  and 
we  sought  him  out  in  the  crowd. 

"I  came  out  here  at  five  o'clock  this 
morning,"  said  he,  "an'  I  helped  bring 
water  for  the  ellerphants,  an'  hay  for 
the  horses,  an'  then  that  man  over  there 
who  took  the  zebra  gave  me  five  cents, 
an'  said  if  I'd  lead  the  zebra  in  the  parade 
he'd  give  me  a  free  ticket  for  the  show 
this  afternoon.  Tommy  Cheney  got  in 
side  an'  helped  a  man  feed  the  kanga 
roos,  an'  — " 

"Do  you  s'pose  we  can  water  the  eller 
phants  or  anything?" 

"  I  dunno ;    it's  nearly  twelve  o'clock 


Up  Like  a  Rocket  157 

now,  ain't  it  ?  I've  got  to  go  home  an' 
get  dinner  so's  to  be  back  here  at  one,  if 
that  man  should  want  anything  more, 
an'  you  can  come  back  with  me  then, 
if  you  want  to,  an'  p'r'aps  you  can  do 
something  an'  get  a  ticket." 

We  wanted  no  other  invitation  than 
this.  We  went  back  to  town  with  Horace, 
determined  to  follow  his  plan.  Like 
him  we  would  demand  our  dinners  early, 
and  return  to  the  circus  field  at  one 
o'clock,  under  his  guidance.  Doubtless 
his  influence  with  the  zebra  man  would 
be  all  that  was  needed. 

Horace  had  given  over  the  red  coat 
and  hat  (but  not  the  dust  on  his  face) 
to  the  circus  men,  and  he  arrived  excited 
and  dishevelled  at  his  uncle's  house. 
He  left  us  at  the  gate,  but  we  paused  an 
instant,  for  Mrs.  Vincent  stood  on  the 
veranda  to  welcome  him. 

"I    want    dinner    right    away,    Aunt, 


158  The  Believing  Years 

'cos  I've  got  to  get  back  to  the  circus 
by  one  o'clock,  an'  — " 

"Horace  Winslow,  you  come  into  the 
house  this  instant,  and  take  off  every 
stitch,  and  get  into  the  bath-tub.  Look 
at  your  face  !  Get  up  to  the  bath-room, 
quick!  The  tub  is  all  filled — " 

"Oh,  Aunt,  I  can't  stop  to  fool  with 
taking  baths,  —  I  want  dinner,  'cos  I've 
got  to  get  back  there  at  one  o'clock." 

"Get  back  there  indeed !  Not  one 
step  out  of  this  house  do  you  go  this 
afternoon.  Take  off  your  jacket  before 
you  come  into  the  house,  —  did  you 
have  it  on  under  that  horrible  red 
thing  ?  Give  it  to  me,  —  it's  going  to 
be  burned  up  as  quick  as  I  can  do  it. 
Quick!" 

"Oh,  Aunt,  I've  promised  the  zebra 
trainer  to  be  back  there,  —  why  they're 
dependin'  on  me!  I've  got — " 

"Not  one  step  !     Do  you  hear  ?    Now, 


Up  Like  a  Rocket  159 

upstairs  with  you,  and  into  that  bath 
tub  !" 

Horace  vanished  into  the  house,  fol 
lowed  by  his  aunt.  Ed  Mason  and  I 
looked  disconsolately  at  each  other,  and 
started  wearily  toward  our  homes.  If 
any  one's  influence  were  going  to  admit 
us  to  the  circus,  it  was  not  Horace  Wins- 
low's. 

In  the  parade  he  had  flashed  before 
our  eyes  like  a  rocket,  and  his  descent 
from  glory  had  been  as  sudden  as  the 
stick.  He  had  declined  in  power;  from 
a  magnificent  zebra  leader  he  had  be 
come  an  insignificant  atom  in  a  bath-tub. 
Even  before  we  were  out  of  hearing  he 
uttered  a  loud  howl. 

And  this  was  followed  by  a  monitory 
voice :  — 

" Horace  I" 


CHAPTER  XII 

SUSY 

WE  passed  the  afternoon  gloomily. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  use  in  returning 
to  the  circus  field  without  the  once  in 
fluential  Horace.  Except  for  him,  we 
appeared  to  be  almost  the  only  persons 
who  had  not  gone  to  the  circus. 

Horace,  we  presumed,  would  have  to 
spend  the  whole  afternoon  in  that  bath 
tub.  We  could  imagine  his  misery. 

The  hours  wore  on,  somehow,  and 
about  five  o'clock  the  fortunate  ones 
began  to  return.  We  saw  a  group  of  them 
go  into  the  Carters'  side  yard,  and  so  Ed 
and  I  strolled  over  there  to  increase  our 
suffering  by  hearing  them  recount  what 
they  had  seen. 

160 


Susy  161 

Seven  or  eight  boys  and  girls  were  sit 
ting  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda.  Both 
the  Carters  were  there,  and  Harry  Fletcher, 
Susy  and  Minnie  Kittredge,  Ed  Mason's 
sister  Florence,  and  one  or  two  others. 
Flossie  Mason,  being  fifteen  and  grown 
up,  had  not  been  to  the  afternoon  per 
formance,  —  she  was  going  in  the  even 
ing  with  her  mother. 

The  eyes  of  all  of  them  were  still  wide 
open,  for  in  their  vision  mingled  strange 
animals,  galloping  horses,  and  tumbling 
clowns,  while  the  fascinating  odors  of 
trampled  grass,  freshly  turned  earth, 
sawdust,  pop-corn,  and  rubber  balloons 
lingered  in  their  nostrils. 

Susy  Kittredge,  of  course,  was  talking. 
She  was  beginning,  in  retrospect,  her  tour 
of  the  tents. 

"An'  it  rained  just  before  we  got  to 
the  circus,  an'  the  rain  went  through 
the  tent  an'  washed  the  stripes  all  off 


1 62  The  Believing  Years 

the  zebra  an'  he  was  all  pinky-streaked, 
an'  Dan  Rolfe  said  he  wasn't  nothin' 
underneath  but  just  a  donkey,  an'  — " 

"Don't  say  'wasn't  nothin','  Susy," 
said  Susy's  older  sister,  Minnie. 

Minnie  was  a  prim  little  girl,  with  black 
hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and  drawn 
into  two  tight  pig-tails. 

"Well,  he  wasn't,"  retorted  Susy ;  "an' 
there  were  puddles  of  pink  paint  all  round 
his  feet  where  the  paint  washed  off,  an' 
Rob  Currier  touched  him,  an'  got  the  end 
of  his  finger  all  red,  an'  Louise  Mason 
said  it  was  zebra  blood  an'  it's  deadly 
poison  an'  Rob'll  have  fits  an'  die!" 

Susy  opened  her  eyes  still  wider,  and 
regarded  us  all  with  the  pleasant  feeling 
that  accompanies  the  disclosure  of  hor 
rible  news. 

"There  were  a  lot  of  real  donkeys  next 
to  the  zebra,  an'  one  of  'em  had  on  the 
saddle  that  the  monkey  rode  on  in  the 


Susy  163 

precession,  —  an'  he  rode  him  again  in 
the  race,  too,  an'  next  to  them  was  a 
antelope  in  a  cage,  an'  then  a  ger-noo  — " 

"A  what  ?"  inquired  Ed  Mason,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  scorn. 

"A  ger-noo,"  said  Susy;  "but  he  was 
asleep  — " 

"That  ain't  ger-noo,"  Ed  returned, 
"it's  'noo,' — just  like  that." 

"It  isn't !  It  said  'Ger-noo  or  Horned 
Horse'  right  on  the  cage.  I  guess  I  saw 
it,  Ed  Mason,  and  you  weren't  there, 
so  what  do  you  know  'bout  it  ?" 

"I  don't  care,"  replied  Ed,  doggedly, 
"'tain't  '  ger-noo.'" 

Susy  puckered  up  her  face  and  seemed 
about  to  cry,  but  Flossie  Mason  remarked 
hurriedly:  "Never  mind,  Susy.  What 
was  in  the  next  cage  ?" 

"Oh,  there  was — "  and  then  Susy's 
mind  jumped  ahead  —  "there  was  a 
countryman  with  a  big  umbreller  ari'  just 


164  The  Believing  Years 

as  the  lady  was  goin'  to  dive  into  the 
water  he  came  along  right  in  front  of  us 
an'  said  he'd  give  any  one  three  cents  for 
a  seat,  but  of  course  no  one  would  give 
him  a  seat,  'cos  they  cost  seventy-five 
cents,  an'  he  got  into  a  fight  with  an 
other  countryman  who  was  sittin'  in  the 
front  row,  an'  tried  to  pull  him  out  of  his 
seat,  an'  a  great,  big,  fat  p'liceman  came 
runnin'  an'  tried  to  arrest  'em  both,  an' 
they  grabbed  him  an'  pulled  him  over 
to  the  tank,  an'  all  three  of  'em  fell  into 
the  water,  an'  the  tank  was  all  full  of 
'em,  swimmin'  round,  an'  they  had  to 
stop  the  circus  an'  get  'em  out!" 

Susy  stopped  for  breath,  and  Ed 
Mason  found  time  to  ejaculate:  — 

"Hoh  !  that  was  all  made  up  !  They 
were  clowns,  all  of  'em !" 

"They  were  not  clowns.  They  were 
dressed  up  just  like  men!" 

"That's  all  right,"  I  put  in,  "they  were 


Susy  165 

clowns  just  the  same.  They  go  round 
with  the  circus  doin'  that.  I  saw  'em 
do  somethin'  like  that  last  summer,  only 
there  wasn't  but  one  countryman,  an' 
they  drove  'em  off  in  a  wagon  with 
donkeys." 

"They  weren't  clowns  !"  Susy  stamped 
her  foot.  "  Clowns  have  white  faces, 
an'  funny  clothes,  an'  there  were  two 
real  clowns  helpin'  get  these  men  out, 
they  stopped  bein'  funny  an'  were  awful 
scared  'cos  the  p'liceman  couldn't  swim, 
an'  he  floated  round  on  top  of  the  water, 
an'  when  he  got  hold  of  the  rope  he  was 
so  heavy  the  clowns  couldn't  pull  him 
out  an'  they  fell  in,  too." 

"That's  so,"  said  Charley  Carter,  with 
a  serious  countenance,  as  he  recalled  the 
catastrophe  ;  "an'  a  man  that  sat  in  front 
of  me  said  he  knew  the  first  countryman, 
—  the  one  with  the  umbreller  —  he  lives 
over  in  Rowley." 


1 66  The  Believing  Years 

There  was  a  ring  of  truth  about  this 
which  made  Ed  and  me  subside,  and  as 
Charley  Carter  had  attracted  the  at 
tention  of  the  assemblage,  he  tried  to 
hold  the  floor. 

"When  they  got  the  perliceman  out  — " 
But  Susy  had  no  intention  to  let  any  one 
else  tell  the  story.  She  took  it  up  at  that 
point. 

" —  he  was  all  drownded,  an'  they  put 
him  down  on  the  ground,  an'  begun  to 
roll  him  round,  an'  one  of  the  country 
men  went  an'  got  a  big  pop-squirt,  oh, 
ten  times  bigger  than  any  you  ever  saw, 
an'  filled  it  with  water,  an'  squirted  it 
right  in  the  p'liceman's  face,  an'  that 
made  him  mad,  an'  he  jumped  up  an' 
chased  the  countryman  round  the  tent 
with  his  stick,  an'  at  last  the  countryman 
ran  out  through  the  place  where  the 
horses  an'  riders  come  in,  an'  I  don't 
know  whether  he  caught  him  or  not." 


Susy  167 

"What  did  the  other  countryman  do  ?" 
asked  Flossie  Mason. 

"I  don't  know;  the  chariots  came  by 
then,  an'  I  didn't  see  'em  after  that." 

Joe  Carter  then  made  his  first  offering 
to  the  conversation. 

"Ben  Spaulding  drank  eight  glasses  of 
lemonade,  —  four  pink  and  four  yellow." 

The  irrelevance  of  this  bit  of  gossip 
did  not  make  it  any  the  less  interesting 
to  us.  Instead,  it  gave  Susy  a  chance  to 
play  once  more  her  favorite  role  of  proph 
etess  of  woe. 

"Pink  lemonade's  made  of  coachyneel, 
an'  that's  deadly  poison.  My  mother 
knew  a  boy  that  drank  pink  lemonade  an' 
died  of  it." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  put  in  Harry 
Fletcher. 

And  he  added,  in  a  tremulous  tone  : 
"I  drank  two  glasses  of  it." 

We  all  turned   and  looked  at  Harry, 


1 68  The  Believing  Years 

as  at  one  who  would  not  long  be  with 
us. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  asked  the  elder 
Carter. 

"All  right,"  replied  Harry;  but  he 
had  a  sickly  expression  about  the  mouth. 
He  turned  a  little  aside,  and  did  not  seem 
to  take  any  further  interest  in  the  con 
versation. 

"I  gave  two  bars  of  pop-corn  to  the 
ellerphants,"  announced  Susy,  "but  I 
don't  like  'em  very  well.  They're  all 
covered  with  dust  an'  they  curl  their 
trunks  at  you.  I — " 

"An  elephant's  trunk  is  called  his 
bosphorus,"  said  Minnie,  anxious  to 
grace  the  occasion  by  a  little  learning. 

And  she  added  :  "My  teacher  told  me 


so." 


"I  just  threw  the  corn  at  'em,"  con 
tinued  Susy,  "an'  they  picked  it  up  out 
of  the  hay.  One  of  'em  held  up  his  trunk, 


Susy  169 

an'  his  mouth  was  right  under  it,  an'  a 
man  threw  peanuts  into  his  mouth,  an' 
the  ellerphant  stood  that  way  an'  let 
the  man  throw  peanuts  at  him  ever  so 
long,  an'  we  had  to  go  away  then,  'cos 
the  show  was  goin'  to  begin." 

"You  have  to  be  careful  of  elephants," 
said  Minnie.  "Last  year  there  was  an 
elephant  in  the  circus,  an'  he  had 
whiskers  on  his  trunk,  an'  Billy  Mason 
pulled  'em,  an'  the  elephant  didn't  say 
anything,  an'  didn't  do  anything  for  two 
or  three  minutes,  an'  then  just  as  Billy 
was  starting  to  go  he  swung  his  trunk 
round  an'  if  Billy  hadn't  dodged  quick 
the  elephant  would  have  killed  him. 
An'  there  was  a  man  there  an'  he  said 
that  if  that  elephant  ever  sees  Billy 
again,  even  if  it's  a  hundred  years  from 
now,  he'll  remember  him,  an'  he'll  try 
to  hit  him  again  with  his  trunk." 

Cheerful     Susy     instantly     remarked: 


1 70  The  Believing  Years 

"Billy's  goin'  to  the  circus  to-night.  Do 
you  s'pose  that  ellerphant  will  be  there  ?" 

Billy's  sister  tried  to  take  a  hopeful 
view. 

"Oh,  this  is  another  circus,  —  'tisn't 
the  same  one  that  was  here  last  sum 


mer." 


But  nothing  could  discourage  Susy. 

"  Perhaps  they've  swapped  ellerphants," 
she  suggested. 

Harry  Fletcher  rose  from  the  steps  at 
this  moment,  and  observed  in  a  shaky 
voice,  that  he  guessed  he  would  go  home. 
He  walked  up  the  garden  path  with  rather 
feeble  steps.  We  watched  him,  —  awe 
struck. 

"Perhaps  it's  the  coachyneel  in  his 
insides,"  whispered  Susy. 

We  pondered  over  this  suggestion  for 
a  few  moments,  and  it  certainly  seemed 
reasonable.  When  Harry  disappeared 
down  the  street,  walking  slowly,  and 


Susy  171 

holding  to  the  fence,  we  decided  that  it 
was  only  a  question  of  a  few  hours  with 
him.  The  incident  cast  a  gloom  over  us, 
which  was  not  dispelled  until  Joe  Carter 
said :  — 

"Did  you  go  to  the  side-show?" 

"No,"  answered  Susy;  "my  mother 
says  side-shows  are  horrid." 

"They  ain't.  This  was  great.  There 
was  a  lady  without  any  body,  —  just 
head  and  shoulders  sitting  in  a  glass  plate, 
an'  there  was  a  man  that  would  let  you 
stick  pins  in  him,  an'  there  were  some 
grave-robbing  hyenas  — " 

"Poo  !"  said  Susy,  "I  saw  some  hyenas 
in  the  animal  tent,  an'  we  stayed  to  the 


concert  an'  — " 


"Yes,  I  know,"  persisted  Joe  Carter, 
"but  those  hyenas  in  the  animal  tent 
weren't  grave-robbing  ones.  Now  these, 
— "  and  he  entered  into  some  grewsome 
details  about  the  hyenas  that  made  Susy 


172  The  Believing  Years 

regretfully  admit  that  the  side-show  must 
have  had  its  good  points. 

"But  there  was  a  sea-lion,"  she  re 
flected,  "havin'  his  supper  when  we  came 
out  of  the  concert,  an'  he  sat  up  on  a 
board,  an'  the  man  tossed  him  fish,  an' 
he  roared  lots  louder  than  the  lions,  an' 
we  saw  the  giraffes  — " 

"That's  nothin'"  said  Joe;  "so  did  I." 

Susy  paid  no  attention,  —  she  was  in 
full  swing  of  narration. 

"An'  there  was  a  Happy  Fam'ly  of  a 
monkey,  an'  a  armadillo,  an'  a  dog,  an' 
a  kangaroo,  an'  a  porcupine,  all  livin' 
together  in  one  cage,  an'  when  the  monkey 
would  try  to  tease  the  kangaroo,  he'd 
just  roll  himself  up  in  a  ball  an'  — " 

"Who  would  ?"  interrupted  Ed  Mason. 

"The  kangaroo,  course  —  just  like  the 
picture  of  South  America  in  the  geog 
raphy." 

But  the  cynic  voice  of  Mason  was  not 
stilled. 


Susy  173 

"Kangaroos  don't  roll  themselves  up  in 
balls." 

"This  one  did." 

"No ;  that  was  the  armadillo  you  were 
lookin'  at." 

"My  mother  said  it  was  a  kangaroo, 
an'  it  was  a  kangaroo,  an'  you'd  better 
keep  quiet  an'  leave  me  alone,  —  I  guess 
my  mother  knows  more'n  you  do  about 


it.' 


Ed  sulkily  muttered:  "'Twa'n't  a 
kangaroo,"  but  Susy  went  on  with  her 
catalogue  of  beasts. 

"There  was  a  bore-constrictor  there 
that  can  crush  eight  men  at  once,  — 
one  of  the  circus  men  told  my  mother 
so,  an'  she  said,  CI  should  think  you'd 
be  afraid  he  might  get  out,  —  he  could 
squeeze  through  the  bars,  couldn't  he?' 
And  the  man  said  he  was  scared  for  his 
life  all  the  time.  The  bore-constrictor 
did  get  out  up  in  Lynn." 


174  The  Believing  Years 

"Did  he  crush  eight  men  ?"  two  or 
three  of  us  asked  at  once. 

"No;  they  lassoed  him.  But  he  may 
get  out  again  any  time.  An'  there  was 
a  hipperpottermus  that  you  couldn't 
see,  except  one  eye,  'cos  he  kept  down 
in  a  tank  of  water,  an'  he  was  horrid, 
an,'  oh  !  I  forgot !  Alice  Remick  had  on 
a  new  dress  an'  she  went  to  give  an  eller- 
phant  a  cookie,  an'  the  ellerphant  switched 
up  his  trunk  and  spattered  her  with  mud  so 
it  spoiled  her  dress,  an'  she  got  both  eyes 
stuck  up  with  mud  so  she  couldn't  see, 
an'  she  cried  so  her  father  had  to  go  right 
home  without  seein'  any  more  of  the 
circus,  an'  —  " 

"Did  one  of  the  elephants  come  in  and 
ride  round  on  a  big  velocipede?"  de 
manded  Ed  Mason. 

"No,"  said  Susy;  "but—" 

"Did  the  seals  play  on  drums,  an' 
cymbals,  an'  sing?"  he  persisted. 


Susy  175 

"No;    but  they—" 

"Oh,  well,"  replied  Ed,  "they  did  at 
the  circus  last  year.  An'  this  circus  only 
had  ten  elephants.  Last  year  they  had 
fourteen.  An'  last  year  they  had  a  Black 
Tent  of  Myst'ries,  too.  I  don't  b'lieve 
this  was  much  of  a  circus  !" 

With  this  remark  we  both  thought  we 
might  effectively  take  leave.  We  de 
parted  together,  and  as  we  left  the  garden 
we  could  still  hear  the  shrill  tones  of 
Susy :  — 

" —  an'  there  was  an  ejjicated  pig 
that  sat  up  in  a  chair  with  a  ruffle  round 
his  neck,  an'  they  said  he  could  read, 
but  he  didn't,  an'  one  man  fell  out  of  that 
swing,  an'  we  thought  he  was  goin'  to  get 
killed,  but  he  fell  in  a  net  an'  jumped  up 
an'  kissed  his  hand,  but  my  mother  says 
they  do  get  killed,  —  often,  an'  there  was 
a  cinnamon  bear — " 

As  we  walked  by  my  house  Ed  Mason 
repeated  his  remark  :  — 


176  The  Believing  Years 

"I  don't  b'lieve  'twas  much  of  a  circus." 

My  father  looked  suddenly  over  a  hedge 
and  said:  "Then  you  couldn't  arrange 
to  go  with  me  this  evening?" 

We  both  jumped.  We  were  startled 
at  his  voice,  and  there  was  also  something 
in  what  he  said  that  seemed  to  make  the 
sun  burst  out  of  the  clouds. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  well  to  judge  the 
circus  without  seeing  it. 

"Because  I  am  going,"  he  continued, 
"and  I  should  be  glad  of  your  company, 
—  unless,  of  course,  you  are  leaving  for 
Omaha?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ARMA   PUERUMQUE    CANO 

IN  the  warfare  that  raged  through  the 
neighborhood  it  invariably  fell  on  Ed 
Mason  and  me  to  support  lost  causes. 

As  the  two  smallest,  we  were  told  off 
to  represent  the  English  at  Bunker  Hill. 
It  was  a  revised  and  thoroughly  patriotic 
Bunker  Hill,  for  the  English  never 
reached  the  top,  but  had  to  retreat  under 
a  galling  fire  of  green  apples. 

As  Confederates,  we  dashed  boldly 
but  ineffectually  across  the  valley  at 
Gettysburg. 

When  the  honor  of  the  Old  Guard  at 
Waterloo  was  in  our  keeping,  we  did  not 
die,  but  we  did  surrender  ignominiously, 

N  177 


178  The  Believing  Years 

and  were  locked  up  in  a  box-stall  in  Peter 
Bailey's  father's  stable. 

After  that,  the  allied  forces,  consisting 
of  Peter,  Rob  Currier,  Joe  and  Charley 
Carter,  and  Horace  Winslow,  basely  with 
drew  to  inspect  Auntie  Merrill's  pears 
(which  were  nearly  ripe)  and  left  us 
Napoleonic  veterans  to  wither  in  captivity. 

It  was  not  only  in  struggles  among 
ourselves  that  we  had  to  drink  of  the 
bitter  cup  of  defeat.  When  we  banded 
together  against  the  common  enemy, 
things  were  not  much  better.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  time  when  Peter  Bailey 
decided  to  turn  the  stable  into  a  police 
station.  The  stalls  suggested  cells  (there 
were  no  horses  kept  in  them),  and  the 
success  with  which  the  Old  Guard  had 
been  imprisoned  after  their  crushing  de 
feat  at  Waterloo,  showed  the  desirability 
of  more  captives. 

At  first  things  took  their  usual  course. 


Arma  Puerumque  Cano  179 

Ed  Mason  and  I  were  informed  that  we 
were  a  gang  of  cutthroats,  burglars,  high 
way  robbers,  pickpockets,  counterfeiters, 
and  other  kinds  of  ruffians,  and  bade  to 
sneak  about  the  streets.  We  were  warned 
not  to  run  too  fast  when  the  police 
approached  to  arrest  us,  and  told  that  it 
was  "no  fair"  to  make  any  determined 
resistance. 

When  Peter  Bailey,  Rob  Currier,  and 
the  others  dashed  out  of  the  stable,  clad 
(in  their  own  estimation)  in  blue  coats 
and  brass  buttons,  we  were  to  submit  to 
arrest  ad  libitum. 

But  after  we  had  been  dragged  in  and 
confined  in  cells  a  dozen  or  twenty  times, 
it  began  to  pall,  even  on  the  policemen. 

It  had  long  ago  become  sickeningly 
familiar  to  us. 

To  give  the  thing  variety,  new  victims 
must  be  found.  We  were  weary  of  the 
business  and  had  ceased  to  feel  any  ter- 


i  So  The  Believing  Years 

TOT  at  the  prospect  of  confinement.  We 
never  served  terms  longer  than  thirty 
seconds,  for  we  had  to  be  released  im 
mediately  in  order  to  be  arrested  once 
more.  With  only  two  criminals  in  the 
world,  the  policeman's  lot  became  a 
tedious  one.  Both  prisoners  and  police 
felt  that  unless  something  happened  the 
stable  could  no  longer  a  prison  make, 
nor  wooden  stalls  a  cage. 

Peter  proposed  to  reform  the  whole 
thing.  He  boldly  suggested  that  we  go 
outside  our  own  circles  and  arrest  the 
Irish  boys,  —  those  who  went  in  the 
winter  to  the  parochial  school.  It  would 
have  to  be  done  with  all  the  majesty  of  the 
law,  and  that  required  a  billy  for  each 
policeman. 

These  were  duly  made  out  of  broom 
sticks.  With  great  pains  a  hole  was 
burned  through  the  top  of  each  with  a 
red-hot  poker.  Then  a  cord  was  passed 


Arma  Puerumque  Cano  181 

through  the  hole,  so  the  billy  might  be 
dangled  and  swung. 

We  were  now  ready  for  the  prisoners, 
and  our  first  campaign  was  all  that  the 
heart  could  wish.  We  waylaid  a  group 
of  boys,  and,  without  much  struggle, 
soon  had  a  prisoner  in  each  cell.  After 
a  little  we  let  them  go. 

They  hurried  off,  remarking  that  they 
would  get  even  with  us. 

These  wholesale  arrests  were  continued 
for  two  or  three  days,  and  all  went  happily. 
It  was  not  until  a  week  afterward  that 
the  reckoning  came.  Then  a  crowd  of 
the  outraged  prisoners  found  Ed  Mason 
and  me  alone,  fell  upon  us,  and  beat  us 
full  sore.  Without  the  whole  force  of 
police  our  authority  had  waned,  and 
once  again  it  became  apparent  that  hu 
miliation  was  ever  our  fortune  in  feats 
of  arms. 

It  was  this  last  straw  that  led  to  our 


1 82  The  Believing  Years 

singular  revolt  on  the  day  of  the  famous 
cowboy  and  Indian  raid.  We  outraged 
all  the  proprieties,  turned  against  the 
white  man,  and  showed  a  criminal  dis 
regard  for  the  cause  of  civilization.  But 
for  once  victory  rested  with  us.  We 
plucked  success  out  of  failure,  and  found 
that  it  was  good.  When  we  had  it,  we 
declined  to  let  it  go.  Force  of  arms  had 
decided  the  issue,  and  we  accepted  its 
arbitrament.  Argument  could  not  move 
us.  The  worm  turned,  and  the  turning 
of  him  was  terrible. 

A  hot  and  languorous  day  in  August 
saw  the  great  battle  of  redskins  and  pale 
faces.  Nothing  in  the  weather  stirred  us 
to  mighty  deeds.  The  long  afternoon 
had  dragged  on  to  half-past  four.  For 
two  hours  we  had  roamed  the  street,  the 
gardens,  and  back  yards.  A  dulness 
settled  over  things.  The  phoebe-bird  who 
sat  on  Mr.  Hawkins's  woodshed  reit- 


Arma  Puerumque  Cano  183 

crated  his  dismal  note,  as  though  the 
weariness  of  the  dog-days  had  entered 
his  very  soul. 

"  Phe-e-e  —  be-e-e-e,"  he  remarked, 
with  that  falling  inflection  on  the  last 
syllable  that  would  dampen  the  spirits 
of  a  circus  clown. 

"  Phe-e-e  —  be-e-e." 

Mr.  Hawkins  himself  leaned  over  his 
gate  and  smoked  his  pipe.  An  ice-cart 
came  lumbering  down  the  street.  That, 
at  least,  was  interesting.  We  hurried  to 
meet  it,  and  each  possessed  himself  of  a 
lump  of  ice.  Then  we  perched,  some  on 
my  fence  and  some  on  the  blue  box  that 
held  the  garden  hose.  We  removed  the 
straw  and  sawdust  from  the  ice,  and 
began  to  suck  it. 

Mr.  Hawkins,  having  taken  his  clay 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  engaged  in  a  con 
versation  with  the  driver  of  the  ice-cart 
on  the  prospects  of  rain.  We  watched 


184  The  Believing  Years 

them  languidly.  They  debated  the  ques 
tion  at  length,  until  the  dripping  water 
from  the  ice-cart  had  formed  three  dark 
spots  in  the  dusty  street. 

Peter  Bailey  said  :  "Let's  go  up  to 
Davenport's  and  see  if  the  raft  is  there." 

Davenport's  was  a  general  term  used 
to  describe  a  field,  and  a  pond  in  that 
field.  The  pond  was  a  small  affair,  with 
no  large  amount  of  water,  but  a  great 
deal  of  black  mud.  It  was  not  without 
certain  tremendous  fascinations,  how 
ever,  for  we  believed  that  in  one  place  it 
had  no  bottom. 

Moreover,  leeches  abounded. 

Few,  if  any  of  us,  had  ever  seen  a  leech  ; 
but  we  were  aware  that  if  one  of  them 
attached  himself  to  the  human  body,  no 
power  under  Heaven  could  drag  him  off, 
and  he  would  not  stop  his  infernal  work 
until  he  had  drained  away  every  drop  of 
blood. 


Arma  Puerumque  Cano  185 

Ed  Mason  and  I  had  other  reasons 
than  the  leeches  for  not  wanting  to  ex 
periment  with  the  raft  at  Davenport's. 
Only  a  week  before  we  had  been  cap 
sized  from  that  raft.  We  had  not  found 
the  bottomless  spot,  nor  been  attacked 
by  leeches ;  but  we  had  crawled  ashore 
in  such  a  condition  of  muddiness  that  our 
reception  at  our  respective  homes  had 
been  depressing.  Davenport's  could  get 
along  without  us  for  a  while. 

Peter's  suggestion  fell  flat.  Just  then 
Charley  Carter  caught  sight  of  a  spare 
piece  of  clothes-line  in  my  side  yard.  He 
ran  and  seized  it,  shouting  "Lassos!" 

It  was  a  happy  idea.  The  boundless 
West,  the  prairies,  herds  of  buffaloes, 
roving  Indians,  cowboys  —  these  were 
the  visions  that  excited  us  in  an  instant, 
especially  the  cowboys. 

What  a  life  is  theirs  —  to  gallop  for 
ever  with  cracking  revolvers  and  whirling 


1 86  The  Believing  Years 

lassos ;  to  capture  the  mighty  buffalo, 
and  bring  down  the  hated  Indian  ! 

Why  should  we  not  do  that  ? 

Mr.  Hawkins,  next  door,  might  con 
tinue  to  smoke  his  pipe  to  the  monoto 
nous  song  of  the  phoebe.  For  us,  the 
career  of  danger  far  beyond  the  Missis 
sippi  ;  the  life  that  knows  no  fear  on  the 
wind-swept  prairie  ! 

A  lack  of  any  more  rope  in  my  yard, 
and  my  firm  refusal  to  have  the  clothes 
lines  cut  down  entire,  made  us  depart  to 
Bailey's  stable,  where  desperate  enter 
prises  were  set  on  foot. 

We  made  the  lassos  and  drew  upon 
our  armory  for  wooden  revolvers.  These 
are  thoroughly  satisfactory  weapons  if 
you  wave  them  in  the  air  and  shout 
"Bang!"  at  frequent  intervals. 

But  immediately  Peter  Bailey's  genius 
for  military  organization  asserted  itself. 
He  and  Rob  Currier,  the  two  Carters, 


Arma  Puerumque  Cano  187 

and  Horace  Winslow  would  be  the  cow 
boys.  The  hostile  Indians  must  be  im 
personated,  of  course,  by  Ed  Mason  and 
myself.  What  was  the  sense  of  having 
cowboys  without  Indians  for  them  to 
destroy  ? 

So  we  should  have  no  lassos,  nor  yet 
revolvers,  but  only  tomahawks. 

Right  here  I  drew  the  line. 

Ed  backed  me  up,  and  we  announced 
our  ultimatum.  Indians  we  would  be, 
and  lassoless  we  would  go,  but  to  ask  us 
to  refrain  from  carrying  revolvers  was 
demanding  too  much.  We  stuck  out  for 
revolvers,  and  intimated  that  a  refusal 
would  cause  us  to  withdraw  from  all 
operations  that  afternoon. 

So  the  concession  was  made. 

Even  then  we  knew  that  the  adventure 
could  end  in  only  one  fashion.  We 
should  be  chased,  hunted  down,  shot, 
lassoed,  scalped,  and  finally  burned  at  the 


1 88  The  Believing  Years 

stake,  during  an  imposing  war-dance ; 
for  these  cowboys  were  fully  enamored 
of  Indian  methods  of  warfare  when  turned 
against  the  Indians  themselves. 

We  were  to  belong  to  a  dangerous  tribe, 
recently  discovered  by  Peter  Bailey,  and 
called  Sigh-ux.  We  agreed  to  start  on 
our  barbaric  career  from  the  stable. 
From  there  to  the  street  corner  we  should 
have  full  license  to  pillage  and  destroy. 
In  order  to  give  the  avenging  cowboys 
due  provocation,  we  were  to  commit  cer 
tain  outrages  on  the  way.  These  might 
include  burning  down  the  Universalist 
Church  on  the  corner  and  ringing  the 
door-bell  at  Miss  Whipple's  private 
school. 

Once  we  had  turned  into  Oak  Street, 
where  I  lived,  we  would  have  to  look  to 
our  safety.  The  cowboys  would  be  on 
our  track. 

So  off  we  went. 


Arma  Puerumque  Cano  189 

In  a  few  moments,  ignited  by  shots 
from  our  revolvers,  the  Universalist 
Church  was  wrapped  in  flames.  We 
rang  Miss  Whipple's  door-bell,  and,  as  an 
additional  atrocity,  threatened  her  cat 
with  tomahawks.  Then  we  turned  up 
Oak  Street,  and  knew  in  a  moment,  by 
the  yells  that  arose,  that  the  cowboys 
had  burst  out  of  their  encampment  and 
were  after  us. 

I  suppose  Ed  shared  my  feelings  of 
despair  as  we  ran  up  the  street.  The 
youngest  cowboy  was  two  years  older 
than  either  of  us ;  they  were  all  swifter 
runners,  and  they  outnumbered  us  by 
three.  In  a  few  moments  it  would  all 
be  over.  Our  brief  season  of  bloodshed 
and  destruction  was  past,  and  it  now 
only  remained  for  us  to  be  slaughtered 
at  the  cowboys'  will. 

It  was  so  tiresome  ! 

Our  defeats  at  Bunker  Hill,  at  Gettys- 


190  The  Believing  Years 

burg,  at  Waterloo,  and  on  countless  other 
stricken  fields  recurred  to  us  as  we  panted 
along.  If  we  could  only  turn  the  tables 
in  some  way  ! 

Instinctively  we  hurried  toward  the 
side  yard  of  my  house,  climbed  the  fence, 
and  tumbled  over.  We  landed  on  the 
blue  box  that  held  the  garden  hose.  The 
cowboys  were  approaching  rapidly,  with 
loud  cries  and  much  banging  of  revolvers. 
Already  Horace  Winslow  was  shouting 
that  he  had  shot  me  five  times,  and  that 
I  must  fall  dead  instantly.  In  a  moment, 
we  knew,  they  would  be  over  the  fence 
after  us. 

Moved  by  the  same  thought,  we  opened 
the  blue  box.  The  hose  was  connected 
with  the  tap  at  the  side  of  the  house. 
Ed  turned  the  tap,  while  I,  standing  on 
the  edge  of  the  box  and  looking  over  the 
fence  into  the  street,  swept  the  road  with 
a  stream  of  cold  water. 


Arma  Puerumque  Cano  191 

Horace  stopped  abruptly  in  his  rush 
toward  the  fence,  and  Joe  Carter,  who 
had  halted  about  thirty  feet  away  to 
pour  a  volley  of  bullets  after  us,  executed 
a  swift  movement  to  the  rear. 

The  others  paused  where  they  were. 
Tomahawks,  scalping-knives,  spears,  and 
revolvers  —  none  of  these  would  have 
checked  the  bold  cowboys  for  a  moment ; 
but  this  stream  of  water  was  another 
matter. 

It  does  not  do  for  any  cowboy,  how 
ever  desperate,  to  go  home  to  his  parents 
with  his  clothes  soaking  wet.  Such 
events  often  mean  an  enforced  retirement 
for  a  day  from  the  field  of  glory. 

"Whatcher  doing?"  screamed  Peter 
Bailey.  "That  ain't  fair  !" 

We  felt  that  he  was  right.  This  gar 
den  hose  suddenly  springing  out  of  the 
Western  prairie  was  a  false  note.  Ar 
tistically  it  jarred.  It  was  like  bringing 
a  school-teacher  into  fairyland. 


192  The  Believing  Years 

But  we  did  not  stop  the  stream.  For 
once  we  saw  the  militant  Peter,  his  fear 
less  lieutenant,  Rob  Currier,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  ever  victorious  army  held  in 
check.  No  feeling  that  we  were  violating 
the  fitness  of  things  could  detract  from 
the  sweetness  of  the  moment.  If  eternal 
defeat  had  not  embittered  us  in  the  past, 
we  might  have  been  more  artistic  and 
less  human  on  this  occasion.  But  in  an 
instant,  and  as  by  direct  intervention  of 
the  gods,  our  retreat  had  been  turned  into 
triumph,  and  that  we  did  not  intend  to 
relinquish. 

Woe,  woe,  to  the  vanquished  ! 

"Aw,  that's  a  great  thing  to  do!" 
sneered  Rob  Currier. 

"You  can't  do  it !"  shouted  Joe  Carter 
in  a  state  of  great  excitement ;  "Indians 
don't  have  hose  !" 

"That's  all  right,"  I  replied,  "these 
Indians  have  got  some.  They  got  it 


Arma  Puerumque  Cano  193 

from  a  settler's  cabin,  or  —  or  —  or  some 
how.     Anyhow,  they've  got  it." 

"But  'tain't  fair,"  reiterated  Peter 
Bailey. 

"  'Tain't  fair  for  five  of  you  to  be  al 
ways  masserkerin'  us,"  remarked  my 
fellow  Indian. 

Peter  was  disposed  to  bitterness.  He 
did  not  enjoy  having  his  military  plans 
frustrated  in  such  a  manner. 

"You're  only  a  couple  of  babies,  — 
you're  afraid  to  be  masserkered,"  he  said. 

Naturally,  the  babies  invited  him  to 
come  right  on  and  do  his  massacring. 

"I  will,  if  you'll  turn  off  that  hose, —  I 
don't  want  to  get  all  wet." 

"Course  we  won't  turn  it  off,  an'  if 
you're  afraid  to  come,  why,  you're  beaten, 
an'  you  must  surrender,  an'  be  toma 
hawked,  an'  burned  at  the  stake,  an'  have 
blazin'  pine  splinters  stuck  in  your  flesh. 
Will  you  do  it?" 


194  The  Believing  Years 

They  firmly  declined  to  become  parties 
to  any  such  attractive  proceedings. 

"Come  on,"  said  Joe  Carter;  "let  'em 
stay  there  and  play  with  the  hose.  They 
don't  know  how  to  be  Indians,  anyway. 
We'll  go  back  to  the  barn,  and  lasso  buf 
faloes." 

"Come  on,"  said  Peter,  and  the  whole 
band  of  cowboys  departed. 

Then  the  victorious  Indians,  the  two 
triumphant  Sigh-ux,  danced  a  short  war- 
dance,  and  whooped  two  or  three  war- 
whoops,  —  so  loud  that  Mr.  Hawkins 
opened  his  gate,  and  came  out  to  the 
sidewalk  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WHEN    MY    SHIP    COMES    IN 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  the  month  my 
family  went  to  spend  a  week  or  two  in  a 
cottage  at  a  neighboring  beach.  I  en 
joyed  being  at  the  sea-side,  but  I  was  hard 
up  for  playmates.  For  a  few  days  there 
was  a  boy  in  the  cottage  next  ours,  and 
he  spent  most  of  his  time  riding  around 
the  veranda  on  a  velocipede. 

This  made  me  feel  that  I  needed  a 
velocipede,  too,  and  I  suggested  to  my 
father  that  he  supply  my  lack. 

"You  shall  have  one,"  he  said, — 
"when  my  ship  comes  in." 

I  had  never  heard  of  the  ship  before  — 
had  never  known  that  my  father  owned 
so  much  as  a  rowboat.     But  he  had  said 
195 


196  The  Believing  Years 

it  himself  —  I  was  to  have  a  velocipede 
"when  his  ship  came  in."  I  tried  to  find 
out  how  soon  he  expected  her,  and  where 
she  was  coming  from.  But  he  was  hurry 
ing  away  to  take  the  train  which  carried 
him  each  day  to  the  city,  and  I  could 
get  no  particulars  about  his  ship.  He 
laughed,  waved  his  hand,  and  was  gone. 

This  left  me  rather  dissatisfied,  but  I 
reflected,  as  I  strolled  around  the  veranda, 
that  it  was  a  good  thing  I  had  heard  about 
this  ship  while  we  were  living  at  the  sea 
shore.  At  home  there  was  less  opportu 
nity  to  watch  for  ships.  Here  I  saw 
dozens  of  them  every  day.  Sometimes 
there  would  not  be  one  in  sight  when  I 
went  to  bed,  but  in  the  morning  seven 
or  eight  would  ride  at  anchor  a  mile 
or  more  from  the  beach. 

Great  steamers  passed  along,  leaving 
a  trail  of  smoke  behind,  and  once  or  twice 
I  had  seen  dainty  yachts,  glittering  with 


When  My  Ship  Comes  In  197 

white  paint  and  polished  brass.  Then 
heavy  barges  would  go  slowly  by,  pulled 
by  puffing  tugs.  I  had  been  told  that 
they  were  loaded  with  coal,  and  I  hoped 
that  my  father's  ship  was  not  one  of 
them.  If  there  was  a  velocipede  for  me 
on  a  barge,  it  would  get  black  and  sooty. 
I  much  preferred  to  have  it  come  by  one 
of  the  yachts  —  or,  wait  a  moment  — 
once  there  had  swept  by  a  fine  three- 
masted  schooner,  her  hull  painted  white 
and  all  her  sails  set.  She  was  a  beauty, 
and  she  looked  big  enough  to  sail  around, 
the  world  by  herself.  The  yachts  could 
hardly  do  that. 

I  decided  that  I  would  rather  have  my 
father's  ship  turn  out  to  be  a  schooner 
like  that  white  one. 

By  the  time  I  had  reached  this  decision 
I  had  come  to  the  water's  edge.  It  was 
a  warm  morning,  and  the  sun,  three  or 
four  hours  high,  sparkled  on  the  ocean. 


198  The  Believing  Years 

The  waves  broke,  ran  hissing  up  the 
beach,  and  retreated,  leaving  hundreds 
of  little  bubbling  holes  in  the  sand.  I 
knew  these  holes  —  they  were  the 
dwellings  of  sand-fleas,  who  now  were 
in  a  fair  way  of  getting  drowned  out. 

Farther  up  the  beach,  out  of  danger 
from  the  waves,  I  came  upon  a  large  sand- 
flea  hopping  along  energetically.  I  sat 
down  to  head  him  off,  and  find  what  he 
was  about.  With  his  hard-shelled  and 
rounded  back  he  looked  like  a  small 
model  of  some  prehistoric  and  armored 
monster  —  only  he  had  two  very  mild 
blue  eyes.  As  soon  as  I  tried  to  intercept 
him  with  a  piece  of  dried  marsh-grass  he 
put  his  head  down  and  dug  so  vigorously 
that  he  was  soon  covered  with  sand. 

His  disappearance  left  me  alone.  It 
was  a  lonely  place,  that  beach,  for  the 
peanut-man  and  the  merry-go-round 
had  not  discovered  it,  and  its  only  in- 


When  My  Ship  Comes  In  199 

habitants  were  a  few  cottagers,  like  our 
family,  and  the  fishermen. 

But  I  did  not  miss  the  crowd.  A  few 
minutes'  walk  farther  down  the  beach 
brought  me  to  a  point  of  sand  that  ran 
out  into  the  ocean  for  fifty  or  sixty  yards 
at  low  tide.  At  the  end  it  curved  around 
and  enclosed  a  small  salt-water  pond. 

This  was  an  enchanted  spot. 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  the  very  kind 
of  a  pond  for  "  going  in  wading."  That 
mysterious  and  dangerous  thing  called 
the  undertow,  which  lived  among  the 
breakers,  had  no  influence  in  these  quiet 
waters.  Then,  along  the  edges  could  be 
found,  more  than  anywhere  else,  all  kinds 
of  interesting  shells  and  sea  creatures. 
There  were  large  white  shells,  well 
adapted  for  scooping  holes  in  the  sand, 
and  smaller,  roundish  cockle-shells  whose 
inmates  were  usually  at  home.  When  you 
picked  up  one  of  them  the  cockle  retired 


soo  The  Believing  Years 

inside  and  drew  a  trap-door  over  the  en 
trance. 

There  were  starfish  with  waving  ten 
tacles,  sand-dollars,  and  the  empty  shells 
of  sea-urchins  and  razor-clams.  The 
black  and  ominous-looking  objects  which 
I  implicitly  believed  to  be  sharks'  eggs 
were  often  found  near  the  borders  of  that 
ocean  pond,  and  horseshoe  crabs  crawled 
darkly  beneath  its  surface  or  lay  dry 
and  deceased  on  the  sand. 

Some  rocks,  covered  with  seaweed, 
sheltered  a  colony  of  ordinary  crabs  — 
little  ones,  who  scuttled  away  as  you  ap 
proached,  and  big,  dignified,  ferocious 
veterans,  who  looked  up  at  you  defiantly 
and  blew  a  multitude  of  bubbles,  though 
whether  they  did  this  through  wrath  and 
indignation,  or  merely  with  the  conscious 
joy  of  the  artist,  I  could  never  discover. 

These  rocks  were  also  the  haunt  of 
sea-gulls,  who  took  flight  before  you 


When  My  Ship  Comes  In  201 

could  come  close  to  them.  The  sand 
pipers  were  more  neighborly,  skipping 
along  the  beach  in  front  of  you,  though 
even  they  were  shy  and  wary. 

The  waves  brought  up  many  charming 
varieties  of  seaweed,  red,  green,  and 
brown.  Beautiful  enough  it  looked  in 
the  water;  the  disappointment  came 
when  you  took  it  out. 

Besides  all  these  living  or  growing 
things,  each  high  tide  cast  up  on  the 
sands  an  assortment  of  fascinating  objects 
—  pebbles  of  odd  shapes  and  colors, 
smooth  bits  of  wood  rounded  by  the 
waves,  spindles  and  spools  that  had  come 
down  the  river  from  the  mills  of  far-away 
towns,  and  bottles  which  always  looked 
as  if  they  were  going  to  contain  a  mes 
sage  from  some  ship-wrecked  mariner  — 
but  never  did. 

And  now  the  greatest  delight  of  all 
had  been  added,  for  I  could  watch  for  my 


202  The  Believing  Years 

father's  ship  to  come  in.  It  would  nat 
urally  land  there,  I  argued ;  while  he  was 
living  at  the  seashore  he  would  have  it 
come  as  near  as  possible  to  his  house. 
It  might  run  right  up  to  the  beach ;  they 
would  put  out  a  gangplank  and  one  of 
the  sailors  would  wheel  my  velocipede 
ashore. 

Then  I  could  spend  the  day  riding  it 
around  the  veranda  of  our  cottage. 

Or  perhaps  the  ship  would  not  be  able 
to  come  so  close  to  the  shore.  It  would 
anchor  a  mile  or  two  out,  and  send  a 
boat.  The  velocipede  might  get  wet 
coming  in  an  open  boat  that  way,  and,  if 
it  were  made  of  iron,  the  water  would  rust 
it.  I  hoped  they  would  know  enough  to 
cover  it  up  before  they  started  to  row  in 
to  the  beach. 

There  were  certainly  no  ships  in  sight 
that  I  could  believe  were  my  father's. 
Two  fishing  schooners  were  riding  at 


When  My  Ship  Comes  In  203 

anchor,  and  the  smoke  of  a  steamer 
showed  on  the  horizon  —  that  was  all.  I 
left  the  pond  behind  and  walked  out  to 
the  end  of  the  little  cape.  At  any  mo 
ment  my  father's  ship  might  come  in  sight, 
and  it  was  surely  well  for  me  to  be  ready 
for  her.  The  sailors  would  be  glad  to 
see  me,  for  then  they  could  hand  over 
the  velocipede,  sail  away  again  to  wher 
ever  they  came  from,  and  get  anything 
else  my  father  might  want. 

Where    were    they    coming    from  ? 

That  was  an  interesting  question.  I 
could  see  no  land  out  there,  but  I  had 
been  told  that  if  a  ship  sailed  straight 
ahead  in  that  direction  the  first  land 
reached  would  be  Portugal. 

"I  wonder  what  kind  of  velocipedes 
they  have  in  Portugal  ?" 

I  uttered  this  aloud,  and  I  jumped 
when  I  heard  a  voice  say  :  — 

"What's  that  you  are  wondering  ?" 


204  The  Believing  Years 

A  man  had  walked  up  behind  me.  He 
was  a  stranger  —  a  tall  man,  carrying 
his  hat  in  his  hand.  He  repeated  his 
question,  and  I  told  him  that  I  was  won 
dering  about  the  velocipedes  in  Portugal. 

"Portugal  —  Portugal,"  he  ruminated. 
"I've  never  been  in  Portugal.  I've  been 
near  it,  though.  I've  been  in  Spain.  In 
fact,  I  own  some  property  in  Spain." 

"Do  you  ?"  I  queried  in  astonishment. 
"But  you  look  like  an  American.  And 
Portugal's  right  straight  out  there.  Why 
didn't  you  go  there  first  ?" 

"Well,  I  went  another  way,  you  see. 
And  then  the  Spaniards  are  easier  to  get 
along  with  —  they're  better  landlords." 

"Can  you  talk  Spanish  ?"  I  demanded. 

"A  little,"  he  replied  modestly; 
"enough  to  answer.  Tell  me  about  this 
velocipede  of  yours.  How  did  it  get  to 
Portugal?" 

"It  didn't  get  there,"  I  told  him ;   "it's 


When  My  Skip  Comes  In  205 

coming    from    there.     Or,    anyhow,    it's 

coming  from  somewhere.     On  my  father's 

ship." 

"Oh,  your  father  has  a  ship,  has  he  ?" 
"Yes.     He  told  me  this  morning  that 

I  could  have  a  velocipede  when  his  ship 


came  in." 


He  looked  down  at  me  seriously  enough. 

"I  see.  And  so  now  you're  waiting 
for  his  ship  to  come  in." 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  he  seemed 
struck  by  the  appearance  of  my  bare  legs. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  shins  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Mosquito  bites,"  I  replied  briefly. 

After  another  pause  he  said,  gravely  : 

"Camphor  is  good  for  mosquito  bites." 

"Yes,  I  know.  My  mother  puts  it  on 
every  night." 

I  thought  a  moment,  and  then  asked, 

"Do  they  have  mosquitoes  in  Spain  ?" 


206  The  Believing  Years 

"Not  on  my  estates,"  he  assured  me; 
"nothing  unpleasant  on  them  at  all. 
But  it's  funny  you  should  be  here  waiting 
for  a  ship  to  come  in.  For  that's  just 
what  I  am  doing." 

"Have  you  a  ship  ?" 

"One  exactly  like  your  father's." 

"Do  you  know  my  father  ?" 

"No,  but  I  know  his  ship." 

"Is  it  a  three-masted  schooner,  painted 
white?" 

"Why,  it's  white.  I  am  not  sure  about 
the  three  masts.  But  it's  white  sure 
enough,  all  bright  and  shiny.  So  is  mine. 
Most  of  'em  are." 

"Do   many   people   have   ships  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  lots  and  lots.  Some  of 
them  have  velocipedes  on  board,  and 
some  have  —  oh,  all  kinds  of  things." 

"What  have  you  on  yours  ?" 

He  eyed  me  again.     *» 

"You  would  laugh  if  I  told  you." 


When  My  Ship  Comes  In  207 

"No,  I  wouldn't  either." 

"Yes,  you  would." 

"No,  I  wouldn't  either"  I  insisted. 
"Tell  me  what  you've  got  on  your  ship." 

"Promise  you  won't  tell  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"Cross  your  throat  ?" 

"Yes." 

And  I  did  so. 

He  bent  down.     "Well,  then,  it's  a  — " 

He  broke  off  and  looked  along  the 
beach.  I  looked  too,  but  saw  nothing 
remarkable ;  only  Miss  Norton,  who 
lived  in  the  cottage  next  but  one  to  ours. 
She  had  Boojum,  the  Nortons'  bull  ter 
rier,  on  a  leash.  Boojum  was  pulling  at 
the  leash  and  dragging  her  along  as 
usual,  and  she  seemed  to  be  quite  out  of 
breath  when  she  reached  the  little  sandy 
point. 

My  friend,  the  man,  told  me  to  come 
on,  and  hurried  off  to  meet  Miss  Norton. 


2o8  The  Believing  Years 

They  shook  hands  and  began  to  talk.  I 
stood  where  I  was  and  watched  them. 
At  last  the  man  turned  toward  me  and 
shouted :  — 

"Come  on!  Don't  you  want  to  go 
for  a  walk  ?  We'll  watch  for  your  ship 
as  we  go." 

But  I  shook  my  head.  I  did  not  in 
tend  to  be  drawn  from  my  vigil  as  easy 
as  that.  Miss  Norton  did  not  interest 
me  particularly  —  I  could  see  her  any  day. 

The  man  was  apparently  glad  to  see 
her ;  they  slipped  Boojum's  leash,  let  him 
rush  off  by  himself,  and  then  started 
together  along  the  sand. 

He  could  not  have  had  anything  valu 
able  on  his  ship,  for  he  never  glanced  at 
the  ocean  at  all. 

I  turned  again  to  inspect  the  horizon, 
reflecting  that  it  was  quite  different  when 
you  expected  your  ship  to  bring  you  a 
velocipede. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    LUCKY-BUG 

AFTER  all  my  waiting  and  watching  I 
never  saw  the  ship  that  fetched  my  veloci 
pede.  It  came  —  during  the  night,  I 
fancy  —  shortly  after  we  got  home  from 
the  beach. 

But  I  had  the  velocipede,  —  that  was 
the  main  thing.  It  was  built  mostly  of 
wood,  and  painted  red.  On  it,  I  spent 
four  happy  days,  riding  up  and  down  the 
sidewalks  of  Oak  Street. 

Then,  somehow,  it  got  broken,  and  had 
to  be  sent  away  to  be  mended.  This 
was  distressing  enough  of  itself.  But  it 
turned  out  to  be  the  first  of  a  veritable 
series  of  misfortunes. 

On  the  same  day  that  I  broke  the  veloci- 
p  209 


210  The  Believing  Years 

pede,  the  cat  made  an  attempt  on  the 
life  of  my  sole  surviving  goldfish.  She 
had  been  unsuccessful,  I  am  glad  to  say, 
and  she  now  had  to  disappear  over  the 
fence  with  more  than  her  usual  speed 
whenever  I  came  out  of  the  house.  But 
in  her  efforts  she  had  dislodged  a  pail  of 
minnows  that  stood  beside  the  goldfish's 
residence,  and  a  quart  or  more  of  pond- 
water,  with  fifteen  unfortunate  minnows, 
had  been  deposited  on  my  bed.  I  was 
not  there  to  distress  my  eyes  with  their 
dying  struggles,  but  the  household  au 
thorities  had  made  much  of  the  incident, 
dwelling  quite  irrelevantly  on  the  state 
of  the  bedclothes,  rather  than  the  fate  of 
the  minnows. 

Consequently  I  was  led  to  believe  that 
any  more  minnows  would  be  received 
into  the  house  with  a  coolness  bordering 
upon  absolute  inhospitality. 

The  shocking  unreasonableness  of  this 


The  Lucky-bug  211 

attitude  was  perfectly  plain  to  me,  as  I 
think  it  will  be  to  any  fair-minded  person. 
I  pointed  out  that  neither  I,  nor  the  gold 
fish,  nor  the  deceased  minnows  were  in 
any  degree  to  blame.  Not  the  most 
biassed  tribunal  in  the  world,  save  one 
composed  of  feminine  housekeepers, 
would  ever  think  of  finding  guilty  any 
party  to  the  accident  except  the  cat. 

But  did  they  so  much  as  reprove  her? 

Not  they. 

She  was  a  moth  of  peace,  rusting  in 
idleness  under  the  kitchen  stove  or  on  the 
back  fence,  fat,  lazy,  and  full  of  sin.  Like 
all  of  her  kind,  she  tempered  a  career  of 
sloth  with  occasional  deeds  of  cruelty 
and  blood  by  day  and  with  diabolical 
yells  at  night.  Yet  she  was  maintained, 
a  favored  pensioner,  in  the  household, 
under  the  superstitious  delusion  that  she 
caught  mice,  and  she  would  have  gone 
over  to  the  neighbors  any  day  if  it  had 


212  The  Believing  Years 

struck  her  that  they  were  more  generous 
with  rations  than  we  were. 

My  estimate  of  her  was  formed  the 
night  I  heard  the  screams  of  a  nest  of 
young  robins  in  the  apple  tree,  up  which 
she  had  dragged  her  fat  body,  like  an 
overfed  snake,  bent  on  slaughter.  And 
nothing  in  the  vast  amount  of  misleading 
literature  lauding  her  race  has  ever  suc 
ceeded  in  whitewashing  the  character  of 
the  old  reprobate. 

The  velocipede  went  away  to  be  re 
paired,  and  the  minnows  departed  this 
life  on  Monday.  On  Tuesday  I  broke  the 
large  blade  of  my  jack-knife,  and  on 
Wednesday  fell  in  with  three  boys  from 
the  parochial  school,  who  still  recalled 
with  animosity  their  captivity  in  Peter 
Bailey's  stable. 

It  was  three  against  one,  and  I  emerged 
from  the  encounter  with  very  little  glory, 
a  good  deal  of  dust  on  my  clothes,  and 


The  Lucky-bug  213 

two  or  three  rather  lame  spots  on  my 
person. 

Beyond  argument,  I  had  somehow  got 
into  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 
eyes.  At  this  rate,  unless  the  gods  were 
propitiated,  it  seemed  unlikely  that  I 
should  survive  until  the  end  of  the 
week. 

What  could  I  do  to  win  fortune  back  ? 
Some  great  stroke  was  evidently  neces 
sary.  Ever  since  Monday,  the  day  of 
the  first  catastrophes,  I  had  carefully 
dropped  stones  down  the  culvert  under 
the  railway  track  every  time  I  passed. 

Nothing  at  all  had  come  of  it. 

Yet  it  is,  as  every  one  knows,  a  very 
potent  charm  indeed.  To  all  who  doubt 
I  have  only  to  say  that  Charley  Carter, 
after  dropping  stones  in  the  culvert  three 
or  four  times  a  week  for  two  years,  had, 
one  day,  only  an  hour  and  a  half  after 
dropping  a  stone,  found  eleven  cents  (two 


214  The  Believing  Years 

nickels  and  a  copper)  down  in  Market 
Square.  But  it  did  not  work  with  me. 

Billy  Mason,  an  unquestioned  authority 
in  all  such  matters,  advised  the  capture 
of  a  Lucky-bug.  That  was  his  recipe, 
delivered  when  the  shades  of  Wednesday 
evening  were  drawing  in.  And  now  be 
hold  me,  in  the  bright  sunlight  of  Thurs 
day  morning,  anxiously  following  the 
movements  of  a  large  Lucky-bug,  who 
was  sliding  merrily  over  the  surface  of 
the  frog  pond. 

He  darted  swiftly  about  on  the  water, 
making  two  little  ripples  that  broadened 
to  the  right  and  left  behind  him.  His 
neat,  dark,  gentleman-like  coat  was 
slightly  glossy,  catching  the  sunshine  in 
one  tiny  bright  spot  on  his  back.  Ten 
or  a  dozen  inches  he  would  slide  in  one 
direction,  looking  always  like  the  tip  of  an 
arrow-head  whose  sides  were  formed  by 
the  ripples  he  made. 


The  Lucky-bug  215 

Then  he  would  shoot  off  abruptly  at 
right  angles,  halt  again,  and  change  his 
course  once  more.  There  was  no  method 
in  his  actions  ;  no  vulgar  pursuit  of  food. 

The  swallows,  who  in  ceaseless  parab 
olas  soared,  swept,  and  fluttered  over 
that  end  of  the  pond,  had  a  very  practical 
purpose,  however  charming  their  flight 
might  appear.  They  were  gathering  a 
comfortable  meal  of  gnats  and  mosquitoes. 

But  the  Lucky-bug,  so  far  as  I  could  see, 
was  in  it  merely  for  the  fun  of  the  thing. 
Why  toil  and  fuss  about  breakfast  on  a 
fine  morning  of  summer  ?  Much  pleas- 
anter  to  skim  over  the  water,  mindful 
only  of  the  waving  branches  of  the  great 
elms  overhead  and  the  grassy  bankings 
dotted  with  the  yellow  blossoms  of  the 
arnica. 

That  was  his  philosophy,  I  thought, 
and  I  sympathized  with  it.  But  I  realized 
that  it  was  not  for  me.  The  grinding 


216  The  Believing  Years 

cares  of  life  oppressed  me,  and  left  no 
time  for  idle  amusement.  My  needs  had 
driven  me  forth  with  a  glass  fruit-jar 
filled  with  water,  and  I  must  capture 
that  Lucky-bug.  He  might  continue  his 
antics,  but  it  must  be  in  the  narrow, 
circumscribed  limits  of  the  fruit-jar;  not 
on  the  surface  of  the  frog  pond. 

That  good  luck  would  attend  me  if  I 
could  catch  him,  I  had  no  manner  of 
doubt.  Billy  Mason  had  cited  specific 
instances  of  the  extreme  felicity  of  those 
who  caught  and  held  these  small  black 
water-beetles,  and  Jimmy  Toppan  reen- 
forced  Billy's  thesis  by  relating  that  it 
was  only  four  months  after  he  had  caught 
a  Lucky-bug  that  his  father  had  bought 
him  a  Shetland  pony. 

The  possession  of  a  pony  was  beyond 
my  utmost  hopes,  but  I  did  pray,  at  least, 
that  when  I  had  attained  a  Lucky-bug 
the  misfortunes  which  had  assailed  me 


The  Lucky-bug  217 

during  the  last  three  days  might  come 
to  an  end.  Indeed,  at  that  moment 
of  desperation,  fresh  from  my  unhappy 
meeting  with  the  parochial  school  boys, 
I  would  have  gladly  foregone  any  future 
pony  for  the  mere  privilege  of  being 
let  alone  by  whatever  malign  deity  it  was 
that  seemed  bent  on  pestering  me. 

The  Lucky-bug  sailed  warily  about, 
never  coming  within  easy  reach.  Evi 
dently  he  had  noticed  me  and  my  fruit- 
jar.  If  I  had  brought  a  net,  his  capture 
would  have  been  easy,  but  the  authorities 
held  that  he  ought  to  be  seized  with  the 
hand.  Otherwise,  the  charm  might  fail. 

I  observed  him  in  silence,  and  at  last 
was  glad  to  see  that  his  motions  were 
bringing  him  nearer  the  shore.  He 
darted  in  and  out,  but,  on  the  whole, 
came  gradually  within  reach. 

I  leaned  forward  over  the  water,  my 
hand  outstretched. 


218  The  Believing  Years 

Another  swift  movement  brought  him 
nearer  me.  Evidently  he  had  decided 
that  I  was  not  a  hostile  object.  His 
trustfulness  was  going  to  get  him  into 
trouble.  Still  another  slide  toward  me, 
and  I  made  a  quick  grab  at  him. 

But  he  was  quicker.  He  seized  a  tiny 
bubble  —  where  he  got  it,  I  could  not  see 
—  and  dived  like  a  flash,  carrying  the 
bubble  with  him.  It  was  evidently  his 
air  supply,  or  else  for  illuminating  pur 
poses,  —  I  could  not  be  sure  which,  but 
he  looked  like  a  diver  carrying  an  electric 
searchlight. 

Once  he  reached  the  bottom  —  it  was 
only  about  six  inches  distant  there  at  the 
edge  of  the  pond  —  he  became  invisible 
among  the  pebbles  and  bits  of  wood. 
I  groped  about,  but  could  not  dislodge 
him. 

So  I  drew  back  and  waited.  In  a  few 
moments  he  came  to  the  surface  again,  a 


The  Lucky -bug  219 

yard  or  two  to  the  left.  I  made  ready  to 
snatch  at  him  once  more,  but  he  was 
plainly  cautious  now,  for  he  went  below 
with  his  bubble  before  I  had  any  chance 
of  getting  him. 

I  decided  to  look  for  another  Lucky-bug 
with  less  suspicion  in  his  character,  and 
I  set  out  to  stroll  around  the  pond. 

A  little  farther  along  I  found  two  or 
three  toads,  —  meditating,  apparently, 
near  the  edge  of  the  water.  I  reflected  on 
the  unfairness  of  calling  that  pond  after 
the  gay  and  handsome  frog  when  it  was 
almost  exclusively  occupied  by  that  more 
sedate  and  useful  citizen,  the  toad.  That 
was  the  way  of  the  world  as  it  seemed  to 
me  on  that  morning.  The  frog  had  a 
smart  coat,  his  carriage  was  jaunty,  and 
his  movements  nimble.  Also  was  he  an 
expert  swimmer.  When  you  had  said  that 
about  him  you  had  said  all. 

Nobody  liked  the  toad's   appearance; 


22O  The  Believing  Years 

his  progress  on  land  was  lumbering,  to 
say  the  least,  and  no  one  thought  of  going 
to  him  for  swimming  lessons.  With  him 
swimming  was  a  duty  during  certain 
weeks  of  the  year.  With  the  frog  it  was 
an  art  and  a  joy  forever.  But  did  the 
frog  ever  contribute  to  the  happiness  of 
the  world  as  the  toad  had  been  doing  but 
a  few  weeks  earlier  ? 

I  think  not. 

The  toad  had  not  only  the  nightingale's 
eyes ;  he  had,  during  those  early  spring 
months,  the  other  gift  of  the  nightingale 
as  well.  Had  not  all  heard  him  on  the 
mild  evenings  when,  with  his  throat 
swelled  out,  he  trilled  love  songs  that  made 
the  whole  pond  musical  ?  And  did  any 
one  give  him  credit  ? 

No;  they  said,  "Hear  the  frogs  sing- 
ing!" 

Musing  thus  on  the  black  injustice  of 
things,  I  circled  the  pond  and  came  again 


The  Lucky-bug  221 

to  the  haunt  of  the  original  Lucky-bug. 
There  he  was,  or  his  twin,  skimming 
about  as  before.  I  approached,  stooped 
over,  reached  out  my  hand,  and  grabbed. 

/  had  him  I 

He  was  instantly  in  the  fruit-jar,  where 
he  seemed  perfectly  contented,  sailing  and 
diving  as  if  he  were  on  the  pond. 

I  walked  home  triumphant.  Did  my 
luck  change  ?  Can  you  ask  the  question  ? 
I  do  not  want  to  make  the  case  too 
strong,  for  my  attitude  is  that  of  the  sci 
entific  investigator.  So  I  will  mention 
only  two  of  the  events  that  followed  the 
capture  of  that  Lucky-bug. 

And  mind,  please,  that  both  of  them 
occurred  on  that  same  Thursday. 

On  my  way  home,  I  found  the  works 
of  an  old  alarm  clock  which  somebody 
had  abandoned.  The  cover,  face,  and 
bell  were  gone;  but  you  could  still  wind 
it  up  and  make  a  delightful  whirring 


222  The  Believing  Years 

sound,  calculated  to  distract  all  grown 
ups. 

That  was  not  all. 

When  I  got  home,  I  found  that  there 
was  to  be  blueberry  pudding  for  dinner 
—  and  my  brother  was  gone  for  the  day  ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WEST    INJY    LANE 

EVERY  one  called  it  "West  Injy  Lane," 
but  some  of  the  property  holders  had  put 
up  a  sign-post  with  the  words,  "Wash 
ington  Avenue." 

There  was  never  a  Washington  Ave 
nue  which  looked  so  little  like  one.  A 
pleasant  old  road,  —  it  had  not  greatly 
changed  its  appearance  since  the  day 
when  the  man  for  whom  it  had  been  re 
named  passed  by.  It  meandered  along, 
innocent  of  sidewalks,  and  bordered,  right 
and  left,  with  grass.  A  pond  at  one  end 
was  musical  all  the  spring  and  summer, 
—  first  with  the  high  notes  of  the  "peep 
ers,"  then  with  the  soprano  trilling  of 
223 


224  The  Believing  Years 

toads,  and  finally  with  the  gruff  per 
formances  of  basso-profundo  bullfrogs. 

Cows  and  sheep  nibbled  the  grass  at 
the  sides  of  the  road,  or  grazed  in  the 
meadows  beyond  the  stone  walls.  There 
were  only  five  or  six  farm-houses  through 
out  the  mile  and  a  half  of  the  lane,  and 
their  barns  stood  open  all  summer,  while 
the  swallows  flashed  in  and  out.  Solemn 
files  of  white  ducks  waddled  down  to  the 
pond,  where  they  spread  devastation 
among  the  minnows  and  polliwogs,  and 
then  waddled  contentedly  back  again, 
clapping  their  yellow  bills  as  if  smacking 
their  lips.  Their  bills  and  feet  gleamed 
in  the  sunlight. 

It  does  not  seem  that  any  kind  of 
weather  but  bright  sunshine  ever  pre 
vailed  in  West  Injy  Lane.  Certainly, 
Ed  Mason  and  I  did  not  see  how  it  could 
be  improved.  At  one  end,  near  the 
pond,  was  the  country  grocery  where  you 


West  Injy  Lane  225 

could  get  weighed  on  the  scales,  and  buy 
jumbles  (shaped  like  an  elephant)  at  two 
for  a  cent.  Near  the  other  end  was 
HaskelFs  Field,  —  a  hallowed  spot,  for 
it  always  contained  one  or  two  grass- 
covered  rings,  the  relics  of  circuses  past 
and  the  promise  of  circuses  to  come. 

Midway  between  the  two,  and  in  front 
of  one  of  the  houses,  was  a  gigantic  and 
half-ruined  elm,  already  celebrated  in 
legend  and  verse.  Its  romantic  story 
never  impressed  us,  except  to  make  me 
wonder  how  it  happened  that  when  the 
young  man  had  stuck  a  willow  branch 
into  the  ground  in  front  of  his  sweet 
heart's  dwelling,  an  elm  tree  should  have 
sprouted  therefrom. 

"'Twasn't  a  willow,"  said  Ed  Mason, 
as  we  walked  through  the  lane  one  morn 
ing,  "'twas  a  piece  of  elm." 

"'Twas  a  willow,"  I  retorted. 

"How  do  you  know  ?" 
Q 


226  The  Believing  Years 

"'Cos  Charley  Carter  told  me." 
"He   don't   know   anything   'bout   it." 
"Yes,  he  does,  too  !     Fred  Noyes  told 
him,    and    Peter    Bailey   told    him,    and 
Cap'n  Bannister  told  him" 
Ed  was  silent. 

The  name  of  Captain  Bannister  was 
potent.  He  lived  in  a  house  on  this  very 
lane,  —  a  small,  red-faced  man  with  black 
hair.  He  had  been  a  sailor,  it  was  said, 
but  he  was  a  farmer  now,  so  far  as  he 
had  any  occupation  at  all.  He  had  no 
family  and  no  servants,  and  he  dwelt 
alone  with  a  fluctuating  number  of  cats. 
His  house  was  painted  white,  —  spot 
less  and  shining.  It  was  without  blinds, 
and  so  dazzling  as  to  make  you  sneeze 
when  you  looked  at  it.  The  path  up 
to  his  front  door  was  lined,  not  with  the 
usual  white-washed  rocks,  but  with  large 
white  sea-shells  from  some  foreign  coun 
try.  Back  of  these  were  double  rows  of 


West  Injy  Lane  227 

cinnamon  pinks,  the  Captain's  joy  and 
pride. 

Once  I  had  been  taken  by  my  elders 
to  call  on  Captain  Bannister.  He  showed 
us  around  his  house,  —  a  museum  of 
curiosities.  But  of  all  the  stuffed  birds, 
all  the  spiny  and  prickly  fishes,  all  the 
curious  bits  of  coral  and  wooden  ships 
somehow  stuffed  into  glass  bottles,  — 
none  had  seemed  so  interesting  as  a  small 
box  filled  with  what  the  Captain  assured 
me  was  "tooth-powder  from  China." 
That  the  Chinese  should  know  and  use 
a  pink  substance  so  much  like  that  with 
which  I  had  to  struggle  every  morning 
seemed  to  me  nothing  less  than  mar 
vellous. 

The  fact  had  another  aspect  as  well,  — 
it  robbed  foreign  travel  of  one  of  its 
charms.  If  one  could  wander  so  far  and 
still  be  pursued  by  enervating  domestic 
customs,  one  might  as  well  stay  at  home. 


228  The  Believing  Years 

Why  subject  yourself  to  the  dangers  of 
the  deep  if  liberty  fled  always  before  your 
coming  ? 

One  room  in  the  Captain's  house  gave 
me  a  fright.  It  was  a  small,  dark  apart 
ment,  a  closet  for  size.  In  it  the  owner 
had  chosen  to  place  four  or  five  lay 
figures  in  old-fashioned  garments.  They 
had  dried  pumpkins  for  heads  and  they 
sat  in  ghostly  silence  amid  the  gloom. 
There  was  a  man  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth 
sitting  in  front  of  an  empty  fireplace,  an 
old  woman,  and  two  or  three  children. 
There  was  even  a  baby  in  a  cradle,  — 
its  yellow,  pumpkin  face  looking  out  from 
a  ruffled  cap. 

I  did  not  linger  there. 

Ever  since  that  visit  the  silent  family 
had  haunted  my  dreams,  and  I  more  than 
half  suspected  that  Captain  Bannister 
would  like  to  lock  me  up  in  the  room 
with  them.  I  did  not  know  what  ad- 


West  Injy  Lane  229 

vantage  he  would  get  by  such  an  action, 
but  its  possibility  seemed  very  near. 

Even  on  the  bright  morning  that  Ed 
Mason  and  I,  walking  through  West  Injy 
Lane  engaged  in  a  discussion  about  the 
old  tree  —  even  then,  to  me  the  Captain's 
house  was  an  eerie  place. 

There  was  no  reason  —  aside  from  the 
pumpkin  family  —  why  it  should  be  so. 
It  glistened  with  all  its  usual  brightness, 
and  there  was  the  owner  himself  puttering 
about  in  the  little  garden.  Ed  Mason 
walked  up  to  the  picket  fence,  bold  as 
a  lion,  and  addressed  the  captain  in  an 
easy,  conversational  tone. 

"Good  mornin',  Cap'n  Bannister!" 

The  sailor  faced  about. 

"Hullo,  boys  !  Won't  yer  come  in  ? 
.  .  .  Yer  needn't  be  afraid,  I  won't 
hurt  yer." 

This  last  was  for  my  benefit ;  I  had 
not  shown  as  much  readiness  to  enter 
the  gate  as  had  my  companion. 


250  The  Believing  Years 

"Come  right  in." 

So  I  went  in.  The  next  remark  of  the 
old  man  did  much  to  put  everything  on 
an  agreeable  footing. 

"Do  you  boys  like  peaches  ?" 

We  did  like  peaches,  and  we  said  so. 

"Well,  just  wait  till  I  pull  up  two  or 
three  of  these  plantains,  an'  we'll  go  round 
to  the  side  of  the  house  an'  see  if  there's 
any  on  the  tree.  .  .  .  There  .  .  .  now 


come  on." 


We  followed  him  around  the  corner 
of  the  house.  A  black  cat  with  a  white 
breast  came  running  to  meet  his  master. 

"Hullo,  here's  Nickerdemus ;  I  told 
him  to  watch  the  peaches.  Did  yer 
keep  the  bees  away,  Nickerdemus  ?" 

Nicodemus  yawned  and  gave  every 
sign  of  having  been  asleep,  after  the  man 
ner  of  his  kind  when  there  is  no  personal 
advantage  in  keeping  awake. 

The  captain  put  a  ladder  against  the 


West  Injy  Lane  231 

tree,  climbed  up,  and  began  to  drop 
peaches  to  us.  Until  then  I  had  a  faint 
suspicion  that  he  might  be  merely  lur 
ing  us  on  and  on  toward  the  room 
where  sat  the  pumpkin  family.  But  all 
such  suspicions  vanished  now.  You 
cannot  think  ill  of  a  man  who  gives  you 
peaches  like  those. 

Ed  Mason  intended  to  find  out  about 
the  old  elm  tree,  and  he  broached  the 
subject  fearlessly. 

"Cap'n,  Sam  says  that  you  said  they 
planted  a  piece  of  willow  where  the  old 
elm  came  up." 

"What's  that?  No;  they  didn't 
plant  no  willow,  but  all  this  about  the 
young  feller  that  came  callin'  on  his 
girl,  an'  cut  a  stick  to  keep  off  the  dogs, 
an'  stuck  the  stick  in  the  ground  in  front 
of  her  door,  an'  then  went  away  an'  for 
got  it,  an'  the  tree  grew  outer  that  stick, 
—  all  that's  bosh.  Don't  yer  believe  it." 


232  The  Believing  Years 

We  promised  not  to  believe  it.  The 
captain  came  down  the  ladder  with  two 
more  peaches,  which  he  passed  over  to  us. 
He  stood,  watching  us  eat  them,  and  en 
larged  on  the  subject  of  the  tree. 

"I  know  all  'bout  it,  'cos  my  second 
cousin,  Silas  Winkley,  lived  there,  an' 
his  great-gran'father  planted  that  there 
tree  jus'  like  any  other  tree.  Silas's 
great-gran'father,  ol'  Deacon  Plummer, 
wa'n't  callin'  on  any  girls  there,  'cos  he 
was  up'ards  of  seventy  when  he  planted 
the  tree,  an'  had  children  an'  gran'- 
children  of  his  own.  These  here  poems 
is  all  cat's-foot-in-yer-pocket !  " 

We  did  not  know  exactly  what  that 
meant,  but  it  seemed  to  cast  some  doubt 
on  the  truth  of  the  legend,  at  any  rate. 

"Silas  Winkley,"  ruminated  the  Cap 
tain,  "thought  he  was  a  sailor.  He  went 
two  or  three  v'yge-s  with  ol'  Dick  Cutter 
an'  fin'lly  he  got  Melvin  Bailey,  —  gran'- 


West  Injy  Lane  233 

father  of  this  Melvin  that's  alive  now,  to 
give  him  command  of  a  ship.  I've  heard 
my  father  tell  'bout  it  lots  of  times,  — 
he  was  second  mate.  She  was  the 
Nanny  Karr,  —  spelt  it  with  a  K, 
they  did  then.  Well,  Silas  took  her 
down  as  fur  as  Nantucket  all  right,  — 
hee,  hee,  heel" 

Here  Captain  Bannister  paused  and 
chuckled  for  a  few  moments. 

"Yes,  siree,  he  got  her  down  there 
without  no  difficulties,  —  hee,  hee,  hee  ! 
an'  then  he  run  her  plumb  on  to  the  south 
side  of  the  island.  In  a  dead  ca'm, 
mind  yer,  an'  on  a  night  as  clear  as  a 
whistle.  The  crew  all  went  ashore,  — 
they  could  a  dropped  off'n  her  bows  on  to 
land  without  wettin'  their  feet  a'most, 
an'  the  next  mornin'  Silas  went  aboard 
ag'in  to  git  his  wife's  knittin'-needles,  — 
his  wife  was  along  with  him." 

The  captain  paused  again  to  choke 
and  wheeze. 


234  The  Believing  Years 

"Well,  in  a  day  or  two  there  come  a 
high  tide,  an'  they  got  whale-boats,  an' 
hawsers,  an'  some  fellers  on  the  island, 
an'  they  got  her  off  all  right,  —  she 
wa'n't  no  ways  hurt  in  the  sand,  an' 
they  went  on  their  way  rej'icin',  —  'cept 
Melvin  Bailey,  who  had  had  a  hunderd 
an'  forty  dollars  of  his  forked  out  to  the 
fellers  with  the  whale-boats.  However, 
he  didn't  know  nothin'  'bout  this  till 
months  arterwards.  Silas  set  out  ag'in, 
he  was  bound  for  Fayal,  —  d'yer  know 
where  Fayal  is  ?" 

We  were  silent,  till  at  last  I  suggested : 
"It's  in  Spain,  I  mean  Portugal,  isn't 
it?" 

1  "Now  look  at  that !  I  betcher  when 
I  was  your  age  there  wa'n't  any  boy  in 
this  town  that  didn't  know  Fayal.  It's 
one  o'  the  Azores,  an'  some  ways  this 
side  of  Spain  or  Portugal  either.  Well, 
Silas  was  bound  for  Fayal,  but  he  had 


West  Injy  Lane  235 

the  most  terrible  luck  you  ever  see. 
Fust,  he  run  into  a  gale  and  got  drove 
way  south  of  the  Capes.  When  he  wrote 
back  to  Melvin  Bailey  'bout  this  gale  he 
said  that  the  seas  run  tremenjus  high, 
an'  that  the  ship  was  put  into  great 
jeopardy.  Well,  Melvin  wa'n't  what  yer 
call  a  very  edjicated  man,  an'  he  got 
down  his  atlas  an'  —  hee,  hee,  hee  !  an' 
tried  to  find  Great  Jeopardy  !  Hee,  hee, 
hee!" 

I  thought  I  was  not  appreciating  the 
joke  to  its  utmost,  so  I  inquired  politely  : 
"Where  is  Great  Jeopardy,  Cap'n  ?" 
"It  ain't  nowhere,  son.  That's  just 
the  pint  of  the  hull  thing,  —  there  ain't 
no  such  place  !  'Jeopardy'  means  dan 
ger,  an'  all  Silas  meant  was  that,  owin'  to 
the  gale,  the  ship  was  put  into  dan 
ger, —  hee,  hee,  hee  !  I  s'pose  Melvin 
thought  'twas  one  of  them  islands  like 
the  Lesser  Antilles,  or  some  of  them" 


236  The  Believing  Years 

This  time  Ed  Mason  and  I  could  join 
in  Captain  Bannister's  mirth.  The  cap 
tain,  still  chuckling,  led  the  way  across 
the  yard  and  sat  down  on  the  stone  door 
step,  warm  in  the  noon  sunshine.  Ed 
and  I  perched  on  a  grass  banking  beside 
him  to  hear  the  further  adventures  of 
Silas  Winkley. 

"Well,  Silas  he  kep'  havin'  bad  luck. 
His  fust  mate,  Andy  Spauldin',  was  took 
down  sick  pretty  soon  with  yaller  janders, 
an'  that  left  Silas  an'  my  father  to  navi 
gate  the  ship.  It  was  my  father's  fust 
v'yge  as  an  officer,  an'  I  guess  he  wa'n't 
no  great  shakes  navigatin',  —  though  he 
was  most  as  good  as  Silas  was,  at 
that." 

"In  'bout  two  weeks  they  made  what 
Silas  thought  was  Fayal.  Silas  sailed  into 
harbor  as  proud  as  Nebberkernezzar, 
when  one  of  the  men  come  up  an'  says, 
says  he,  'That  ain't  Fayal,  Cap'n,'  but 


West  Injy  Lane  237 

Silas  told  him  to  shut  his  mouth,  he 
guessed  he  knew  where  he  was  without 
no  Joppa  clam-digger  tellin'  him  his 
business.  Yer  see  Silas  he  was  born 
over  to  Ipswich,  an'  terrible  proud  of  it, 
—  I  dunno  why.  But  after  he'd  come 
to  anchor,  an'  he'd  got  on  his  shore  clothes, 
he  got  into  the  boat  an'  went  ashore. 
It  didn't  take  him  long  to  find  out  that 
the  feller  was  right ;  it  wa'n't  Fayal,  it 
wa'n't  even  one  of  the  Azores,  he  hadn't 
made  no  east'ard  at  all,  —  hee,  hee, 
hee  !  Hee,  hee,  hee  !  It  was  —  hee,  hee, 
hee!" 

The  captain's  laughing  was  so  pro 
longed  this  time,  he  was  so  doubled  up 
with  excruciating  merriment  as  to  cause 
us  some  anxiety.  He  coughed  and 
strangled,  and  his  usually  red  face  be 
came  deep  purple.  Finally  he  man 
aged  to  control  himself  enough  to  gasp 
faintly :  — 


238  The  Believing  Years 

"  It  was  one  of  the  West  Injies  !  Yes- 
sir,  Silas  had  sailed  pretty  nigh  due  south 
after  the  gale  was  over,  an'  here  he  was 
on  one  of  the  West  Injy  Islands.  I 
dunno  what  one :  my  father  said  Silas 
wouldn't  never  tell  'em,  though  he  reck 
oned  it  might  'a'  been  Cubia.  Joe 
Noyes  was  in  the  crew,  an'  he  said  it  was 
further  to  the  east'ard  than  Cubia,  but 
it  was  one  of  the  West  Injies  all  right. 
The  story  got  out,  of  course,  when  the 
Nanny  got  back  here,  an,'  when  Silas 
come  down  to  live  on  this  lane  with 
his  mother's  folks,  —  for  Melvin  Bailey 
didn't  ask  him  to  command  no  more  ships, 
— why  then  they  began  to  call  this  West 
Injy  Lane.  That  wa'n't  its  name,  — 
'twas  Plummer's  Lane,  but  folks  has 
called  it  West  Injy  Lane  ever  since,  — 
'cept  these  cotty-dummers  that  want 
it  called  Washington  Avenue.  Yessir, 
that's  the  way  it  happened." 


West  Injy  Lane  239 

And  then  the  captain  added,  some 
what  irrelevantly :  — 

"So  yer  see  I  know  all  'bout  that  tree, 
an'  yer  don't  want  to  believe  any  of  them 
poets  !" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THEIR    UNACCOUNTABLE    BEHAVIOR 

MY  orders  were  explicit. 

I  was  to  take  a  note  up  to  the  Bigelow's 
house  on  Elm  Street,  and  I  was  to  give 
the  note  to  Miss  Carew.  There  was  no 
answer.  After  delivering  the  note  I 
might  do  as  I  pleased,  but  I  must  not  be 
late  for  dinner. 

The  member  of  my  family  who  issued 
these  directions  was  one  with  whom  it 
paid  to  keep  on  good  terms.  I  might 
have  felt  grieved  about  this  errand  on 
such  a  morning,  but  I  had  already  found 
that  Jimmy  Toppan  and  Ed  Mason  had 
departed  from  their  homes  on  some 
private  mission  which  did  not  seem  to 
include  me.  Bereft  of  playmates  I  had 
240 


Their  Unaccountable  Behavior  241 

spent  a  lonely  half-hour  in  the  side  yard, 
blowing  on  blades  of  grass,  and  raising 
fiendish  shrieks  therewith.  So  my  em 
ployment  on  business  which  would  send 
me  far  from  home  was  mutually  agree 
able.  I  had  only  one  request  to  make. 

"Can  I  go  on  my  velocipede  ?" 

"Yes;  but  don't  go  too  fast  and  get 
overheated,  and  don't  lose  the  note." 

The  prohibition  about  going  too  fast 
was  superfluous.  The  velocipede  had 
tires  which  were  but  bands  of  iron. 
Progress  upon  it,  over  the  uneven  brick 
sidewalks,  was  slow  and  not  altogether 
painless.  The  pedals  (they  looked  like 
large  spools)  were  attached  at  such  an 
angle  that  a  thrilling  speed  was  hard  to 
attain. 

But  to  me,  as  I  rode  it  along  the  pleas 
ant,  shaded  sidewalks  of  Elm  Street  on 
that  morning,  it  was  a  chariot  of  joy. 

Naturally,  I  paused  for  a  moment  at 


242  The  Believing  Years 

Mr.  Hawkins's  gate  to  exchange  saluta 
tions  with  that  gentleman.  Mr.  Hawkins 
did  not  believe  that  it  would  rain : 
though  it  might.  Fortified  with  this 
information,  I  continued  past  Jimmy  Top- 
pan's  house,  past  the  frog  pond  and  the 
school.  I  proceeded  at  a  moderate  rate, 
—  not  over  three-quarters  of  a  mile  an 
hour.  At  the  street  crossings,  paved  as 
they  were  with  cobblestones,  it  was,  on 
the  whole,  easier  to  dismount  and  wheel 
my  velocipede. 

When  I  reached  Higginson's  toy-shop 
I  stopped  again,  flattened  my  nose 
against  the  window,  and  observed  the 
condition  of  the  market.  There  had  been 
a  sharp  break  in  marbles,  evidently,  — 
they  were  now  offered  at  fifteen  for  a 
cent.  Return-balls  remained  firm,  how 
ever;  and  tops  had  advanced.  After 
I  had  noted  these  facts,  and  concluded, 
further,  that  some  one  had,  since  yester- 


Their  Unaccountable  Behavior  243 

day,  purchased  two  of  the  five  sticks  of 
striped  candy  from  the  glass  jar  in  the 
window,  I  continued  on  my  journey. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  I  reached  the 
Bigelow  house,  —  a  square,  three-storied 
residence  set  a  little  back  from  the  street. 
The  front  door  was  open,  and  you  could 
look  right  through  the  broad,  cool  hall, 
through  a  back  door,  and  down  the  gar 
den  path.  Everything  about  the  house 
was  big,  and  quiet,  and  cool,  and  there 
was  no  one  to  be  seen,  and  no  sign  of 
any  one,  —  except  for  a  tall  bicycle  which 
stood  at  the  curb-stone. 

I  knew  that  bicycle :  it  belonged  to 
a  neighbor  of  mine,  —  Mr.  Dennett. 
He  was  a  grave,  elderly  man  of  nearly 
twenty-one  years.  Before  him  I  stood 
in  speechless  awe.  Most  of  the  time, 
except  in  summer,  he  was  away  at  a  place 
called  Harvard,  which  drew  many  of  his 
kind. 


244  The  Believing  Years 

In  summer  he,  with  others  like  him, 
rode  about  on  bicycles,  and  did  various 
interesting  things.  Often  they  played 
tennis  at  a  place  farther  up  Elm  Street. 
Sometimes,  on  these  occasions,  Ed  Mason 
and  I  had  been  allowed  to  stand  outside 
the  high  wire  nets,  and  fetch  back  balls 
when  they  were  knocked  into  the  street, 
—  a  privilege  which  we  especially  es 
teemed. 

The  balls  were  of  the  most  fascinating 
kind  imaginable :  they  would  bounce 
to  a  tremendous  height,  and  it  was  ru 
mored  that  they  cost  thirty  cents  apiece. 

I  wondered  why  Mr.  Dennett  was  at 
the  Bigelows'. 

However,  there  was  my  note  to  de 
liver.  I  left  my  red  velocipede  standing 
beside  the  enormous  bicycle,  and  rang  the 
front  door-bell.  After  a  long  wait,  a  very 
red-faced,  cross-looking  woman — not  Mrs. 
Bigelow  at  all  —  came  to  the  door. 


Their  Unaccountable  Behavior  245 

"A  letther  fer  Miss  Keroo  ?  Well, 
ye'd  betther  be  afther  takin'  it  to  her 
yersilf.  She's  out  in  the  garrden,  there. 
An'  no  more  time  have  I  to  waste  in 
runnin'  fer  this  bell  ivry  foive  minutes  !" 

And  she  went  away,  muttering.  I  was 
not  surprised  to  see  her  so  cross.  They 
always  were  cross  ;  it  was  their  normal 
condition.  I  walked  through  the  hall 
and  took  the  garden  path. 

It  was  lined  on  both  sides  with  box, 
and  beyond  were  flower-beds.  Also  there 
were  apple  trees,  and  cherry  trees,  and 
peach  trees,  —  the  last  full  of  red  and 
yellow  fruit.  A  number  of  bees  were 
inquiring  into  the  hollyhocks,  and  on  a 
stalk  of  Canterbury  bells  sat  a  brown 
and  black  butterfly,  slowly  opening  and 
closing  his  wings. 

But  I  could  not  see  Miss  Carew.  Near 
the  foot  of  the  garden  the  path  was 
arched  by  a  summer-house.  Its  latticed 


246  The  Believing  Years 

sides  were  covered  thick  with  clematis 
and  trumpet-vine.  I  kept  on  down  the 
path  and  walked  into  the  summer-house. 

There  was  a  quick  exclamation,  and 
Miss  Carew  arose  hastily  from  a  seat  in 
the  corner.  Mr.  Dennett  was  sitting 
there,  and  he  had  a  curious  expression  on 
his  face,  which  made  him  rather  more 
terrible  to  me  than  usual.  Miss  Carew, 
like  the  cross  woman  who  had  let  me  into 
the  house,  had  very  red  cheeks.  But  in 
the  case  of  Miss  Carew  the  color  was 
not  permanent.  It  was  more  noticeable 
at  this  moment  than  I  had  ever  seen  it 
before ;  but  it  did  not  last. 

"Why,  it's  Sammy  !  "  said  Miss  Carew, 
with  a  laugh. 

I  disliked  being  called  "Sammy"  be 
fore  Mr.  Dennett,  and  I  felt  my  face  grow 
red  also.  I  remembered  that  Miss  Carew 
was  a  stranger,  who  had  been  visiting 
the  Bigelows  scarcely  two  months,  but  I 
corrected  her  just  the  same. 


Their  Unaccountable  Behavior  247 

"Sam,"  I  remarked,  with  dignity. 

"Sam,"  she  repeated  apologetically. 

Then  I  took  the  note  out  of  my  jacket 
pocket,  and  handed  it  to  her.  She 
thanked  me,  opened  the  envelope,  and 
read  the  message.  Then  she  said  that 
it  was  aall  right,"  and  added  that  I  was 
a  good  boy  to  bring  the  note. 

Encouraged  by  this  flattery,  I  backed 
to  a  bench  on  the  other  side  of  the  sum 
mer-house,  and  sat  down  facing  them. 
Miss  Carew  had  seated  herself  again,  — 
though  at  a  somewhat  greater  distance 
from  Mr.  Dennett  than  before. 

There  was  a  slight  pause. 

Miss  Carew  asked  me  how  I  came, — 
had  I  walked  all  the  way  ? 

"No,"  I  replied,  "I  rode  my  veloci 
pede." 

"Did  you,  really?"  she  said;  "that's 
a  long  ride  for  you,  isn't  it  ?" 

It  interested  me  to  hear  Miss  Carew 


248  The  Believing  Years 

talk,  —  she  came  from  some  part  of  the 
country  where  they  have  a  greater  respect 
for  the  letter  R  than  was  usual  with  us. 
But  I  denied  that  I  was  fatigued. 

"No'm;  it  ain't  far  at  all  !  Once,"  I 
continued,  growing  reminiscent,  "  I  rode 
nearly  up  to  Chain  Bridge!" 

"Is  that  so?" 

"Yes'm;  but  when  I  got  up  to  the 
Three  Roads,  Mr.  Titcomb  came  along, 
an'  said  I'd  better  go  back,  —  it  was  so 
hot." 

"Did  you  go  back?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  another  silence,  which  Miss 
Carew  again  broke. 

"What  kind  of  a  velocipede  is  yours  ?" 
she  asked. 

"A  wooden  one,"  I  assured  her. 

Then  it  struck  me  that  the  conversa 
tion  was  becoming  a  trifle  inane,  and  I 
tried  to  make  things  more  interesting. 


Their  Unaccountable  Behavior  249 

"My  velocipede  is  out  in  front  of  the 
house  now,  —  you  can  come  out  and  see 
it,  if  you  want  to." 

But  Miss  Carew  thought  she  would 
defer  that  pleasure  till  another  time. 

Mr.  Dennett  took  the  witness. 

"Do  you  go  to  school,  Sam  ?" 

Really,  it  seemed  that  he  might  have 
done  better  than  that.  I  had  that  ques 
tion  asked  me  about  five  hundred  times 
a  year  by  grown-ups.  Evidently  this 
Harvard  was  not  the  place  I  had  thought. 
But  I  answered  him. 

"Not  now  :  it's  vacation." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  you  go  when  it 
isn't  vacation  ?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"What  school,  —  the  Jackman  ?" 

"No;theKelley." 

"Oh  !     Whose  room  ?" 

"Last  year  I  was  in  Miss  Temple's, 
an'  next  I'll  be  in  Miss  Philipps's." 


250  The  Believing  Years 

I  had  apparently  satisfied  Mr.  Den 
nett's  curiosity,  for  he  relapsed  into 
silence.  There  was  a  long  pause,  while  I 
swung  my  legs,  and  looked  at  them  ex 
pectantly.  I  was  quite  ready  to  answer 
more  questions  if  they  had  them  to  put. 

They  did  not  seem  to  think  of  any 
point  on  which  they  required  information 
for  two  or  three  minutes.  Then  Mr. 
Dennett  did  make  an  inquiry,  —  or, 
rather,  a  suggestion. 

"Perhaps  your  mother  may  want  you 
for  something,  Sam  ?" 

But  I  was  able  to  set  his  mind  at  rest 
instantly. 

"Oh,  no;  she  don't  want  me  till  one 
o'clock,  an'  it's  only  half-past  ten,  now." 

"Later  than  that,  isn't  it  ?" 

"No,  sir.  I  saw  the  'Piscopal  clock 
when  I  came  by." 

He  seemed  to  be  relieved  at  this,  but 
presently  he  had  another  question  to  ask  : 


Their  Unaccountable  Behavior  251 

"Do  you  care  for  blackberries,  Sam  ?" 

"Yes  !     Have  you  got  any  ?" 

"There  are  some  down  the  hill,  there, 
—  against  the  fence.  Why  don't  you 
go  and  get  them  ?" 

"Thank  you,  —  shall  I  bring  some  of 
them  back  to  you  ?" 

"No,  — just  eat  'em  yourself,  and  have 
a  good  time." 

This  was  by  far  the  most  sensible 
thing  he  had  said,  and  I  hurried  down 
to  the  blackberry  bushes.  But  when  I 
got  to  them,  and  inspected  the  long, 
thorny  branches,  I  found  that  my  ex 
pectations  were  to  be  disappointed.  If 
there  had  been  any  good  berries  they 
had  been  picked.  All  that  remained 
were  unripe. 

I  hurried  back  to  the  summer-house, 
and  burst  in  upon  its  occupants.  They 
seemed  to  be  having  some  kind  of  a  mis 
understanding  :  Miss  Carew  had  a  book 


252  The  Believing  Years 

in  her  hands,  which  Mr.  Dennett  was  try 
ing  to  take  from  her. 

"Hullo!  Back  already?  What  was 
the  matter  with  the  blackberries,  —  are 
they  green  ?" 

"No,"  I  replied,  "they  are  red,  —  but 
they're  red  when  they're  green,  you 
know." 

And  I  climbed  back  to  my  former  place 
on  the  bench  opposite  them.  Immedi 
ately,  Mr.  Dennett  became  concerned 
about  my  velocipede. 

"Did  you  leave  your  velocipede  in  the 
street,  Sam  ?  Aren't  you  afraid  some 
one  will  steal  it  ?" 

I  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  guess  not.  I  left  it  right  be 
side  your  bicycle,  an'  there  wouldn't 
any  one  dare  to  touch  it,  —  would  they, 
Miss  Carew?" 

The  lady  agreed  that  it  would  require 
great  boldness,  but  still,  she  thought,  it 


Their  Unaccountable  Behavior  253 

might  be  well  for  me  to  go  and  see  if  it 
were  safe. 

To  allay  her  uneasiness  I  went  back  as 
far  as  the  house,  and  looked  through  the 
hall.  Both  the  machines  were  there,  in 
perfect  safety.  I  returned  to  the  sum 
mer-house,  and  reported  the  fact,  pleased 
at  being  able  to  tell  my  friends  that  they 
need  not  worry. 

As  I  was  climbing  to  my  seat  again, 
Mr.  Dennett  had  another  suggestion. 

"Look  here,  Sam,  we  saw  a  squirrel  in 
Mr.  Moulton's  trees  when  we  came  out 
here.  Don't  you  want  to  go  and  see  if 
you  can  find  him  ?" 

A  squirrel  is  always  worth  seeing.  I 
asked  one  or  two  questions  concerning 
his  whereabouts,  and  then  departed, 
promising  to  return  as  soon  as  I  found  him. 
Mr.  Moulton's  trees  were  many,  and  after 
I  had  gone  through  the  hole  in  the  hedge, 
I  instituted  a  careful  inspection  of  each 
tree. 


254  The  Believing  Years 

Mr.  Moulton  came  down  the  drive, 
and  when  I  told  him  what  I  was  looking 
for,  he  joined  in  the  hunt.  I  can  truth 
fully  say  that  we  examined  each  branch 
with  care. 

But  no  squirrel  appeared  at  all,  though 
we  saw  three  blackbirds,  and  plenty  of 
robins.  When  I  got  back  to  the  summer- 
house  Miss  Carew  and  Mr.  Dennett  were 
both  gone,  although  they  had  left  the 
book  behind.  I  searched  and  called,  but 
could  not  find  them  any  more  than  I  had 
found  the  squirrel. 

As  I  departed  down  Elm  -Street  again 
on  my  velocipede,  I  thought  the  matter 
over  at  some  length.  Mr.  Dennett  had 
not  left  the  premises,  unless  he  had  done 
so  without  his  bicycle,  for  that  remained 
where  I  had  first  seen  it. 

There  was  something  singular  about 
their  behavior.  Had  they,  perchance, 
picked  all  the  ripe  blackerries  before  I 


Their  Unaccountable  Behavior  255 

arrived,  and  had  they  been  trying,  with 
so  much  artifice,  to  conceal  that  fact  from 
me  ? 

That  was  the  most  reasonable  explana 
tion  I  could  devise,  —  and,  certainly,  the 
circumstances  demanded  some  kind  of 
explanation. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    SIEGE    OF   AUNTIE    MERRILL 

IT  was  Peter  Bailey  who  organized  the 
siege.  We  had  long  ago  made  up  the 
quarrel  that  arose  on  the  day  of  the  In 
dian  raid.  He  still  maintained  that  Ed's 
and  my  conduct  had  been  contrary  to 
all  rules  of  warfare,  but  we  noticed  that 
we  were  not  expected,  since  that  day, 
to  impersonate  the  under  dog  in  every 
combat. 

Peter's  reputation  for  generalship  was 
a  little  tarnished,  and  for  that  reason  he 
got  up  this  grand  military  movement 
against  the  property  and  person  of 
Auntie  Merrill. 

That  lady  had,  so  Peter  said,  certain 
256 


The  Siege  of  Auntie  Merrill  257 

"distressed  damsels"  closely  immured  in 
dungeons  beneath  her  house. 

"Distressed  what?"  asked  Ed  Mason. 

"Damsels,"  replied  Peter. 

"What  d'ye  mean,  —  girls?" 

"Well,  — yes." 

"I  don't  want  'em,"  rejoined  the  prac 
tical  Ed;  "let  'em  stay  there." 

Peter  was  exasperated. 

"Why,  we've  got  to  get  them  out,"  he 
asserted,  "or  they'll  starve  to  death." 

"How'd  they  get  in  there?"  Ed 
Mason  wished  to  know. 

"What  difference  does  that  make  ? 
She  captured  'em,  I  s'pose." 

I  thought  I  could  throw  a  little  light 
on  this  dark  subject.  It  was  Monday 
morning,  and  I  had  been  looking  over 
the  fence  into  the  Merrill  garden  only 
half  an  hour  before. 

"There  ain't  any  distressed  damsels 
there,  Peter,"  I  said  earnestly;  "I  saw 


258  The  Believing  Years 

'em.  One  of  'em's  Katie  Clancy,  —  an' 
she  lives  there  all  the  time,  an'  the  other 
is  Mrs.  Muldoon,  an'  she's  hangin'  out 
the  wash." 

But  I  was  unmercifully  snubbed  for 
my  pains. 

"You  make  me  perfectly  tired,"  he 
retorted.  "I  don't  mean  Katie,  nor  Mrs. 
Muldoon.  I  know  them.  The  —  er  — 
damsels  are  in  dungeons  below  the 
ground." 

I  turned  to  Rob  Currier,  Jimmy  Top- 
pan,  and  Horace  Winslow,  who  had  come 
into  the  Masons'  back  yard  with  Peter. 
But  they  had  been  under  the  influence 
of  Peter's  warlike  mind  and  persuasive 
tongue  for  an  hour  or  more.  They 
seemed  to  believe  in  the  damsels,  and 
their  confidence  tended  to  shake  my 
doubts. 

Ed  Mason  was  not  so  easily  moved  from 
scepticism. 


The  Siege  of  Auntie  Merrill  259 

"What  are  they  doin'  there?"  he  in 
quired. 

"Doin'  ?  They  ain't  doin'  anything, 
you  chump  !  They're  chained  hand  an' 
foot  to  the  rock.  How  could  they  do 
anything  ?  They're  waitin'  for  us  to 


rescue  'em.': 


"Why  don't  they  call  a  p'liceman  ?" 

"  'Cos  they  can't  !  How  could  they 
call  so  he'd  hear  through  the  rock  ?" 

"Did  Auntie  Merrill  put  'em  in  there  ?" 

"Yes  ;  she  did,  —  or  some  of  her  mur 
mur  mur  dons." 

"Her  what?" 

Horace  Winslow  broke  into  the  conver 
sation. 

"Don't  you  know  what  murmidons 
are  ?  They're  big  woolly  elephants  with 
long  tusks." 

"Oh,  get  out!  Auntie  Merrill  hasn't 
got  any.  You  think  you're  stuffin'  me, 
but  you  ain't !" 


260  The  Believing  Years 

Peter  seemed  to  be  willing  to  change 
the  subject,  and  get  on  to  the  main  issue. 

"We'll  divide  into  two  regiments, — 
I'll  take  command  of  one,  and  Rob  of 
the  other.  I'll  take  Horace  and  Sam, 
and  Rob  can  take  Ed  Mason  and  Jimmy. 
We'll  stay  here,  an'  you  can  go  down 
into  Sam's  yard  an'  climb  over  the  fence, 
an'  go  up  by  the  path  next  the  Mortons' 
house.  Then  we'll  attack  the  house  from 
two  sides  at  once.  Now,  go  on,  Rob." 

But  this  was  going  altogether  too  fast 
for  me. 

"How'll  we  get  by  Mrs.  Muldoon  ? 
She's  out  there  on  the  clothes-jack  now." 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  Peter  assured  me ; 
"if  she  says  anything,  just  knock  her 
down!" 

But  I  could  not  imagine  myself  knock 
ing  Mrs.  Muldoon  down  under  any  cir 
cumstances.  In  the  first  place,  she 
weighed  over  two  hundred  pounds. 


The  Siege  of  Auntie  Merrill  261 

"An'  say,"  continued  Ed  Mason, 
"how  are  we  goin'  to  attack  the  house 
when  we  get  there  ?  What'll  we  do  ?" 

Even   Jimmy   Toppan   was    wavering. 

"Where  are  the  murmidons  ?  What'll 
we  do  if  we  meet  them  ?"  he  asked. 

Such  questions  were  quite  appropri 
ate.  We  had  long  been  accustomed  to 
scout  on  Auntie  Merrill,  as  well  as  other 
more  formidable  persons.  WTe  had 
tracked  her  up  and  down  her  garden 
many  times,  peered  at  her  from  behind 
bushes,  and  observed  her  from  the  tops 
of  trees.  But  Peter,  filled  with  a  long 
ing  for  military  glory  and  daring  deeds, 
was  proposing  an  exploit  altogether  more 
hazardous  than  anything  we  had  ever 
attempted.  Thirsting  for  conquest,  he 
overlooked  all  obstacles.  He  had,  how 
ever,  failed  to  infect  us  with  his  en 
thusiasm. 

For  one  thing,  this  inhuman  treatment 


262  TJie  Believing  Years 

of  the  damsels  seemed  rather  foreign  to 
Auntie  Merrill's  character,  as  I  knew  it. 
It  was  true  she  had  spoken  to  me  with 
severity  on  one  occasion,  —  something 
about  running  across  her  new  grass  plot, 
and  she  had  warned  me  against  throwing 
stones  at  the  statue  of  George  Washing 
ton  near  her  house.  The  latter  warning 
had  been  totally  unnecessary,  —  I  had 
never  dreamed  of  doing  such  a  thing. 
I  never  had,  that  is,  until  she  put  the  idea 
into  my  head,  —  after  that  it  appealed  to 
me  with  the  fearful  fascination  of  a  deadly 
crime. 

I  was  somewhat  afraid  of  her,  but 
it  was  nevertheless  hard  to  think  of 
her  keeping  these  unfortunate  creatures 
chained  up  and  starving.  Moreover,  to 
make  an  open  attack  upon  her  house  by 
force  of  arms  (Peter  had  served  out 
wooden  revolvers  to  us,  and  had  a  sword 
for  himself)  was  a  serious  business.  It 


The  Siege  of  Auntie  Merrill  263 

struck  me  that  we  might  get  involved 
with  the  police.  In  the  first  place,  the 
attack  carried  with  it  the  possible  neces 
sity  of  an  assault  and  battery  upon  Mrs. 
Muldoon,  a  perfectly  respectable  and 
very  muscular  washerwoman. 

Then,  supposing  that  we  had  over 
come  that  difficulty,  there  was  the  house 
to  enter. 

Who  could  say  that  the  doors  might 
not  be  locked  ? 

Finally,  there  were  these  mysterious 
and  terrible  "murmidons."  No  one,  not 
even  Peter,  seemed  to  be  able  to  say 
exactly  what  they  were,  or  tell  at  what 
moment  we  might  be  confronted  by  them. 

Altogether,  I  have  seldom  engaged  in 
any  military  enterprise  where  the  ob 
stacles  seemed  so  overwhelming,  and  the 
chances  of  success  so  slight. 

But  Peter  would  hear  of  no  objections. 

If  we  did  not  wish  to  embroil  ourselves 


264  The  Believing  Years 

with  Mrs.  Muldoon,  it  would  be  a  simple 
matter  to  keep  behind  the  hedge  until 
we  were  between  her  and  the  house. 
Then  it  would  be  too  late  for  her  to  make 
any  effective  resistance. 

As  for  the  locked  doors,  —  beat  'em 
down  ! 

He  would  take  care  of  the  "murmi- 
dons "  himself,  —  leave  them  to  him. 

We  were  quite  willing  to  do  so. 

But  even  at  this  last  moment,  when 
our  general  thought  he  had  arranged 
everything,  and  as  he  was  about  to  issue 
his  orders  once  more  to  Colonel  Currier, 
there  came  a  hitch. 

"Well,  say,  look  here.  What  are  we 
goin'  to  do  with  these  damsels  when  we 
get 'em?" 

It  was  still  Mason,  the  unconvinced, 
who  spoke. 

"Don't  be  such  a  jay !  We'll  send 
'em  home,  of  course  !" 


The  Siege  of  Auntie  Merrill  265 

"Where  do  they  live?" 

Peter  fairly  danced  with  rage. 

"How  do  I  know  where  they  live  ? 
We  can  ask  'em,  can't  we  ?" 

"I  s'pose  we  can.  But  how  are  you 
goin'  to  get  their  chains  off  ?  You  said 
they  were  chained  to  the  rock." 

The  general  had  to  assume  more  re 
sponsibility  for  himself. 

"I'll  get  'em  off  all  right.  Now,  I  do 
wish  you'd  go  ahead  an'  start,  an'  shut 
up  your  talkin'.  Rob,  you  wrhistle  as 
soon  as  you  get  back  of  the  quince  bush, 
an'  we'll  come  right  over  the  fence  here, 
an'  both  regiments  must  charge  up  to 
the  house  at  the  same  time.  But  don't 
start  till  I  give  the  order  to  charge." 

Rob  Currier,  Ed,  and  Jimmy  disap 
peared  behind  Mr.  Hawkins's  woodshed. 
They  had  scarcely  done  so  when  Peter 
called  them  back. 

"You  must  be  sure  to  take  Auntie  Mer- 


266  The  Believing  Years 

rill  a  prisoner,"  he  commanded;  "take 
her  alive  " 

They  promised  not  to  let  her  escape. 
Then  they  set  out  once  more.  We 
climbed  upon  the  fence,  and  watched  for 
them  to  appear  at  the  foot  of  the  Merrill 
garden.  Soon  we  saw  them  crossing 
my  yard  in  Indian  file.  Rob  mounted 
the  fence,  and  looked  over. 

No  enemy  in  sight. 

Then  all  three  climbed  the  fence, 
crouched  behind  the  hedge,  and  crept 
up  the  path  to  the  quince  bush.  Rob 
whistled. 

As  soon  as  he  heard  this  signal,  Peter 
ordered  us  into  the  hostile  territory. 
We  dropped  silently  over  the  fence,  and 
lay  flat  on  our  stomachs  in  the  grass. 
Peter  raised  himself  slightly  on  his  arms 
and  gazed  at  the  stronghold. 

Mrs.  Muldoon  had  gone  into  the  house 
for  more  clothes-pins. 


The  Siege  of  Auntie  Merrill  267 

Now  was  our  chance  ! 

Peter  rose,  waved  his  sword,  and  was 
just  opening  his  mouth  to  order  the 
charge,  when  an  unexpected  thing  hap 
pened. 

Auntie  Merrill  opened  a  side  door  of  her 
house,  walked  out  on  the  veranda,  de 
scended  two  steps,  and  proceeded  slowly 
up  the  side  path  to  the  street.  She  was 
dressed  in  black  as  usual,  with  a  lavender 
bonnet,  and  she  carried  a  little  parasol. 
She  opened  the  garden  gate,  crossed  the 
sidewalk,  stepped  into  a  carriage  that 
was  standing  by  the  curb,  and  drove 
quietly  away. 

The  enemy  had  escaped. 

We  had  been  baffled  without  having 
a  chance  to  strike  a  blow.  But  there 
were  still  the  house  and  the  damsels. 
Ought  we  not  continue  on  our  expedition  ? 

While  we  were  considering  this  ques 
tion,  Katie  Clancy  appeared  at  a  base 
ment  door,  with  a  broom  in  her  hand. 


268  The  Believing  Years 

"Now,  thin,  clear  outer  here,  ye  little 
divils,  or  I'll  be  takin'  the  broom  to  ye  !" 

And  she  started  on  a  frontal  attack. 

Peter  was  over  the  fence  again  in  two 
seconds.  Horace  and  I,  like  well-dis 
ciplined  troops,  did  not  let  him  precede 
us  by  more  than  an  inch. 

In  a  few  moments  the  detachment 
under  Rob  Currier  returned  to  head 
quarters. 

Jimmy  Toppan  said  :  — 

"Let's  go  down  to  Plumbush  an'  go  in 


swimmin '." 


"What's  the  matter  with  Four  Rocks  ?" 
suggested  Peter. 

"Oh,  come  on  to  Plumbush,"  Jimmy 
insisted,  —  "my  uncle's  goin'  to  drive 
down  to  the  farm  in  the  buckboard,  an' 
we  can  get  a  ride  with  him,  part  way." 

The  question  was  put  and  carried  with 
out  dissent,  and  the  meeting  stood  ad 
journed. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ENTERTAINING   ALICE 

IT  was  sprung  on  me  without  any  pre 
tence  of  a  fair  warning.  Rob  Currier,  Ed 
Mason,  and  I  had  just  rounded  up  a  herd 
of  buffaloes  in  the  back  of  my  garden, 
and  we  were  busily  engaged  in  lassoing 
separate  members  of  the  herd  before  they 
should  slip  through  the  fence  into  Mr. 
Tilton's  vegetable  patch.  Once  let  them 
get  there  and  it  would  be  well-nigh  im 
possible,  among  the  lettuce  and  tomatoes, 
ever  to  reduce  them  to  submission.  Your 
buffalo  is  tractable  and  decent  on  even 
turf,  but  when  he  gets  all  mixed  up  with 
vegetables  he  becomes  a  perfect  nuisance. 

At  the  most  exciting  moment  came  a 
voice  which  had  to  be  obeyed :  — 
269 


270  The  Believing  Years 

"Sam!" 

I  ran,  with  my  lasso  in  my  hand,  to 
ward  the  house. 

"Sam,  go  right  upstairs  and  wash  your 
hands  and  face,  and  brush  your  hair. 
Leave  that  old  rope  outside,  —  don't 
bring  it  in  here." 

That  old  rope  ! 

Before  I  could  make  any  inquiries,  any 
explanations,  I  was  hustled  in,  rushed 
upstairs,  forcibly  cleaned,  lacerated  with 
Dr.  Kaltblut's  steel-pronged  tomahawk 
(falsely  called  a  hair-brush)  and  shoved 
downstairs  again. 

Here,  I  was  dragged  —  a  whited  sep 
ulchre  —  into  a  front  room,  where  sat  a 
lady,  —  a  perfect  stranger  to  me,  and 
a  little  girl. 

Toward  the  smaller  and  younger  of 
these  beings  I  was  propelled. 

"Here,  Alice,  this  is  Sam.  Sam,  this 
is  little  Alice  Remick,  who  is  going  to  be 


Entertaining  Alice  271 

your  neighbor.  I  want  you  to  be  nice  to 
her,  and  play  with  her  this  afternoon, 
and  entertain  her." 

The  concentrated  perfidy  of  it !  The 
unmitigated  baseness  !  What  more  could 
Lucrezia  Borgia  have  contrived  ? 

Entertain  her  !  Entertain  this  spindle- 
legged,  pig-tailed  creature  who  was  suck 
ing  her  thumb  in  lively  embarrassment ! 
Was  I  a  dancing  bear,  or  a  mountebank, 
that  I  should  be  called  upon  to  furnish 
amusement  to  this?  Reflect  that  I  had 
been  called  from  high  and  mighty  pur 
suits,  that  I  was  roping  a  gigantic  and 
ferocious  bull  buffalo  at  the  very  moment 
when  I  was  interrupted.  That  even  as 
I  stood  there  in  the  house  the  black 
berry  bushes  were  in  danger  from  the 
rest  of  the  herd,  since  the  band  of  hunt 
ers  had  been  deprived  of  one  unerring 
hand  and  bold  spirit.  And  all  for  the 
purpose  of  "entertaining"  this  hope 
less  product  of  civilization  ! 


272  The  Believing  Years 

There  was  just  one  thing  to  do,  and 
that  was  to  bolt  out  of  the  room  without 
an  instant's  delay. 

I  did  so,  but  only  succeeded  in  getting 
to  the  front  door.  This  was  locked, 
and  in  a  second  I  had  been  recaptured. 
Then  I  was  taken  back  to  the  room,  where 
I  had  to  stand  the  humiliation  of  hear 
ing  myself  apologized  for,  in  the  presence 
of  the  little  girl. 

"Why,  I  do  not  know  what  made  him 
behave  so !  I  never  knew  him  to  do 
anything  like  it  before.  Aren't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself,  Sam  ?  Now,  you 
must  be  polite  to  Alice,  for  she  is  a  stran 
ger.  You'll  do  it  to  please  me,  Sam." 

This  was  certainly  playing  it  pretty 
low  down.  I  had  been  trapped  by  a  com 
bination  of  force  and  guile,  and  now  an 
appeal  was  uttered  in  terms  that  made 
a  refusal  difficult,  as  well  as  useless. 

But  what  could  I  do  with  her  ?     I  had 


Entertaining  Alice  273 

no  experience  with  them,  except  very 
seldom,  and  then  in  groups.  To  have 
a  lone  specimen  like  this  thrust  upon  me 
was  simply  preposterous.  Many  of  the 
boys  had  sisters,  —  both  Rob  and  Ed 
were  provided  for  in  that  respect.  Very 
little  profit,  that  I  could  see,  did  they 
ever  get  out  of  them.  When  the  sisters 
were  older,  they  were  simply  additions 
to  the  household  tyrants  who  thronged 
in  every  family.  They  assumed  an  air 
of  authority;  gave  orders,  administered 
punishments,  and  reported  to  higher 
quarters  what  they  were  pleased  to  con 
sider  serious  misdemeanors. 

As  for  the  younger  ones,  —  they  were 
so  many  millstones  about  the  neck.  Sadie 
Currier  and  Louise  Mason  were  always 
tagging  on  behind,  spying  here  and  in 
terfering  there.  The  two  Kittredges,  — 
Susy  and  Minnie,  —  were  worse  than  all 
the  rest.  Minnie's  spotless  behavior, 


274  The  Believing  Years 

clean  hands,  correct  pronunciation,  and 
generally  immaculate  existence  was  a 
continual  reproach  to  all  of  us  who  were 
merely  human.  Susy's  tongue  was  never 
quiet,  and  she  divided  her  time  between 
chanting  her  own  merits,  and  predicting 
woe  for  the  rest  of  the  world. 

So  it  was  with  a  not  altogether  unprej 
udiced  eye  that  I  gazed  on  this  small 
interloper,  and  wondered  what  I  had  done 
that  I  should  be  treated  like  this.  Doubt 
less  she  reciprocated  the  feeling  heartily, 
but  I  had  no  means  of  knowing  that. 
I  could  not  go  forth  again  to  the  buffalo 
hunt,  carrying  this  bit  of  impedimenta 
with  me.  When  I  even  suggested  tak 
ing  her  outdoors,  a  veto  was  pronounced 
promptly. 

Alice  was  dressed  too  nicely  to  go  and 
play  outdoors. 

Dressed  indeed  she  was,  —  starched 
and  cleaned  and  combed  distressingly. 


Entertaining  Alice  275 

"Perhaps  Alice  would  like  to  see  some 
of  the  things  in  your  playroom,  Sam,  — 
why  don't  you  take  her  out  there  ?" 

I  had  expected  it.  There  only  re 
mained  this  final  blow,  and  I  knew  it 
would  fall.  Admit  this  girl  to  my  inner 
sanctum,  —  oh,  well,  the  world  was 
turned  upside  down  this  afternoon. 
What  had  to  be,  had  to  be,  and  there 
was  an  end  to  it. 

"Come  on  !"  I  said,  in  a  tone  that 
mingled  resignation  and  gruffness. 

Alice  did  not  evince  any  great  amount 
of  eagerness  to  follow  me.  Instead,  she 
hung  back,  —  exactly  like  a  girl !  Here 
was  I,  putting  myself  out  to  be  pleasant 
and  courteous,  giving  up  my  afternoon, 
in  fact,  for  her  amusement,  and  at  my 
very  first  invitation  she  pretended  re 
luctance. 

Her  mother  urged  her  to  accompany 
me,  however,  and  pretty  soon  we  reached 
my  especial  room. 


276  The  Believing  Years 

"Do  you  like  polliwogs  ?"  I  demanded, 
walking  toward  a  glass  jar  in  which 
several  hundred  of  them  swam  about  like 
animated  quotation  marks. 

"Ugh  !  I  hate  'em  !  Nathty  squiggly 
things  !"  and  she  turned  away  ab 
ruptly. 

Here  was  a  nice  beginning  for  you  ! 
My  prized  polliwogs,  gathered  at  no 
small  trouble,  and  already  beginning  to 
show  the  most  interesting  signs  of  frog- 
gishness,  were  dismissed  as  "nathty 
squiggly  things  !" 

But  I  let  the  matter  pass.  I  was  de 
termined  to  be  polite,  —  polite  and 
patient.  I  picked  up  a  little  box,  covered 
with  wire. 

"Here  is  my  snake  box,  —  I've  only 
got  two  now, — one  green  one  and — " 

I  had  no  time  to  finish  about  the  red 
one,  nor  to  exhibit  the  snakes  themselves. 
They  were  really  the  most  harmless 


Entertaining  Alice  277 

little  fellows  in  the  world,  —  neither  of 
them  over  five  inches  long.  One  I  had 
found  under  a  fallen  headstone  in  the 
old  burying-ground,  and  the  other  I  had 
obtained  by  swapping  with  Ed  Mason, 
—  giving  a  sinker,  two  fish-hooks,  a 
turtle,  and  a  piece  of  rock  candy  in 
exchange. 

But  as  soon  as  I  mentioned  the  snakes, 
this  perverse  female  backed  across  the 
room,  her  eyes  closed,  and  both  ears 
stopped  with  the  tips  of  her  forefingers, 
as  if  she  thought  my  pets  might  utter 
some  fearful  screech. 

"Oh,  snakth!  Take  'em  away!  I 
don't  want  to  thee  'em  !  I  hate  'em. 
What  do  you  have  such  nathty  petth  for  ? 
Why  don't  you  have  nice  ones  ?" 

This  was  insulting.  I  was  far  fonder 
of  my  pets  than  of  this  fussy  little  per 
son.  Moreover,  I  was  doing  my  best  to 
amuse  her. 


278  The  Believing  Years 

"I  do  have  nice  ones,"  I  rejoined  in 
dignantly,  "an'  I've  got  a  dog,  an'  a 
white  rabbit,  an'  two  guinea  pigs  out  in 
the  barn.  Do  you  like  any  of  those  ?" 

"Not  very  much." 

She  was  hopeless,  —  simply  hopeless. 
Under  the  circumstances  it  seemed 
hardly  worth  while  to  show  her  my  June 
bugs,  —  although  I  had  seven  or  eight 
which  I  had  caught  the  night  before. 
They  were  of  the  superior  golden-yel 
low  variety,  too,  —  not  the  common 
brown  ones. 

"Haven't  you  any  pets  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yeth;    I've  got  a  kitten." 

A  kitten  !  I  might  have  known  as 
much.  Ordinarily  I  would  have  refrained 
from  any  comment  on  kittens,  but  now, 
"Kittens  are  no  good,"  I  announced. 

"They  are  too;  they're  lovely." 

"No,  they  ain't,  either,  —  they  grow 
up  into  cats." 


Entertaining  Alice  279 

"Catth  are  nice." 

"They  catch  birds,  and  torture  'em," 
I  remarked. 

The  little  girl  began  to  whimper. 

I  couldn't  stand  blubbering,  at  any 
rate.  I  must  do  something  to  stop  that. 
What  would  appeal  to  her  ?  There  was 
the  engine  which  would  puff  out  steam 
when  you  lighted  the  lamp  under  its 
boiler.  Instinctively  I  knew  she  would 
not  care  for  that. 

There  was  my  bag  of  marbles,  —  in 
cluding  two  "alleys,"  one  of  which  had 
some  beautiful  substance  that  looked 
like  checkerberry  candy  inside  it. 

I  brought  the  marbles  forward ;  she 
remained  passive. 

My  railroad  punch  (which  had  once 
belonged  to  a  real  conductor  on  a  train) 
—  she  might  look  at  that.  Nay,  more, 
she  might  punch  fascinating  little  holes 
in  a  piece  of  paper  with  it.  In  my 


280  The  Believing  Years 

determination  to  be  hospitable  I  would 
leave  no  stone  unturned. 

But  she  laid  the  punch  down,  and 
wandered  listlessly  toward  the  door,  her 
thumb  once  more  in  her  mouth. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  play 
my  highest  trump ;  she  should  see  my 
white  mice  !  They  were  prosperous  and 
interesting,  and  there  were  five  new  ones 
since  last  week. 

"Come  here,"  I  said,  and  I  took  her 
to  their  box.  We  looked  down  into 
their  home,  and  as  we  did  so,  an  elder 
mouse  poked  his  head  above  the  straw, 
and  sniffed  the  air  curiously,  his  little 
eyes  twinkling,  and  his  whiskers  quiver 
ing  with  excitement. 

Miss  Alice  uttered  a  loud  squeal,  and 
dashed  out  of  the  room.  I  could  hear 
her  all  along  the  passage:  — 

"Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  —  a  mouth! 
a  mouth!" 


Entertaining  Alice  281 

Well,  I  gave  it  up.  I  had  made  every 
effort,  —  there  was  no  pleasing  the 
creature.  My  conscience  was  clear  at 
all  events,  —  and  that  was  the  principal 
thing. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHILE    THE    EVIL    DAYS    COME    NOT 

SEPTEMBER  was  horribly  near.  And 
worse,  —  there  was  coming  that  5th  day 
of  September  when  a  certain  bell  should 
ring  again,  and  we  trudge  up  Elm  Street, 
fidgeting  uneasily  about  in  our  new 
"fall"  clothes. 

The  spectre  of  that  man,  that  arith 
metic-man,  whose  name  during  the  days 
of  vacation  it  were  almost  profanation 
to  speak,  arose  before  us  with  a  hateful 
leer. 

The  nights  and  mornings  had  grown 
cooler,  and  where  daisies  and  butter 
cups  had  blossomed  at  the  roadside, 
the  golden-rod  and  frost-flowers  had  it 
all  their  own  way. 

282 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  283 

But  one  last  adventure  we  must  have, 
one  last  protest  in  the  name  of  liberty. 
And  so  we  organized,  on  the  third  day 
of  September,  an  extensive  expedition 
for  the  morrow,  and  I  went  to  spend  the 
night  with  Ed  Mason,  to  be  ready  to 
make  an  early  start. 

I  fell  asleep,  wondering  if  we  might 
not  discover  some  unknown  countries 
during  the  next  day.  When  I  woke,  a 
small,  dim  figure  stood  beside  me,  repeat 
ing  the  words,  "It's  half-past  four." 

It  took  me  a  number  of  seconds  to  com 
prehend  their  meaning,  and  to  recognize 
their  speaker.  Then  I  knew,  of  course, 
—  this  was  the  hour  of  rising  for  the  great 
expedition  into  the  backwoods,  and  here 
was  Ed  Mason  telling  me  of  that  fact. 

By  day,  Mason  stalked  the  earth,  com 
pelling  and  terrible,  in  all  the  majesty 
of  nine  years.  The  ground  trembled 
beneath  his  feet,  and  none  looked  upon 


284  The  Believing  Years 

him  without  reverence.  With  his  own 
strong  right  arm  he  had  slain  the  musk- 
rat  in  its  lair,  and  he  had  explored  the 
fastnesses  of  "Second  Woods," — -which, 
as  everybody  knew,  were  at  least  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  beyond  "First  Woods." 

But  now,  in  the  chilly  twilight  before 
dawn,  and  clad  in  a  single  white  gar 
ment,  which  hung  from  his  shoulders 
angelwise,  there  lacked  something  of  the 
awe  which  usually  invested  the  Terror 
of  the  Neighborhood. 

Moreover,  the  nearly  complete  dark 
ness  which  surrounded  us,  and  eight 
solid  hours  of  sleep  from  which  I  had 
just  emerged,  tended  to  make  me  slow 
of  understanding.  Only  the  afternoon 
before,  and  the  world  which  had  stretched 
beyond  the  borders  of  the  town  lay  at 
our  feet,  awaiting  our  conquering  foot 
steps.  Now,  the  world  seemed  not  only 
cold  and  dark,  but  immeasurably  vast, 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  285 

and  we  no  longer  a  pair  of  relentless 
Columbuses.  Rather  small,  in  fact,  we 
seemed,  and  not  wholly  equipped  to  tame 
the  jungle,  and  bring  the  desert  to  ac 
knowledge  its  masters. 

However,  I  said  nothing  of  this  to  Ed 
Mason,  but  arose  and  dressed.  He  was 
making  ready  in  another  room,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  we  tiptoed  down  the  stairs. 
At  five  o'clock  we  were  to  meet  other 
bold  travellers  at  a  rendezvous  near  the 
frog  pond,  and  there  was  no  time  to  be 
lost. 

Luncheons,  a  day's  supply  of  food, 
had  been  prepared  and  put  in  boxes  the 
evening  before. 

With  these  under  our  arms,  we  hurried 
out  into  the  faint  light  and  through  the 
side  yard,  our  spirits  and  our  clothes  a 
trifle  dampened  on  the  way,  by  means 
of  a  glass  of  water  thoughtfully  poured 
upon  us  from  a  window  by  Ed's  sister 


286  The  Believing  Years 

Florence.  This  attention  was  by  way 
of  reciprocating  our  act  of  the  previous 
week,  when  we  had  locked  her  for  a  while 
in  the  hen-house,  —  a  bit  of  humor 
which  we  had  long  ago  forgotten,  but 
which,  it  appeared,  she  still  held  in  lively 
recollection. 

As  we  approached  the  pond,  three  other 
personages  came  into  sight.  These  were 
Rob  Currier,  Jimmy  Toppan,  and  Joe 
Carter.  Charley  Carter  had  been  one 
of  the  organizers  of  the  expedition,  but 
a  too  intimate  association  with  Mr. 
Hawkins's  Bartlett  pear  tree  and  the 
fruit  thereof,  late  on  the  previous  after 
noon,  had  rendered  his  absence  un 
avoidable. 

From  his  elder  brother  we  gathered 
that  Charles  had  passed  the  darkling 
hours  in  a  manner  not  altogether  agree 
able,  and  that  his  parents,  and  even  Dr. 
Macey,  had  been  in  consultation  over 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  287 

the  matter.  Indeed,  it  was  a  narrow 
escape  for  Joe  that  he  was  not  made  to 
suffer  vicarious  punishment,  and  be  kept 
at  home  on  this  day  of  days,  but  luckily 
he  had  been  able  to  prove  an  alibi. 

Peter  Bailey  would  not  accompany  us. 

This  was  not  on  account  of  illness, 
but,  as  we  had  all  been  made  aware, 
because  he  disapproved  of  our  methods. 
It  was  absurd,  he  had  pointed  out,  to 
go  on  such  an  excursion  without  a  com 
pass.  The  military  instinct  which  al 
ready  made  Peter  regard  himself  as  a 
future  ornament  to  the  United  States 
Army,  and  which  is  doubtless  of  supreme 
value  to  him  to-day  in  a  stock-broker's 
office,  —  this  instinct  demanded  a  com 
pass  in  order  to  find  our  path  through 
the  wilds. 

None  of  us  had  a  compass,  and  Peter's 
was  broken,  and  could  not  be  replaced 
until  his  birthday,  —  six  months  hence. 


288  The  Believing  Years 

We  must  either  postpone  our  trip  for 
six  months  or  go  without  Peter.  He 
would  not  trust  himself  so  far  from  civil 
ization  unless  at  any  moment  he  might 
satisfy  his  passion  for  knowing  where 
lay  the  north. 

Some  little  delicacy  made  us  refrain 
from  suggesting  that  at  the  farthest  point 
which  we  should  probably  reach,  the 
spires  of  most  of  the  churches  in  town 
would  undoubtedly  be  visible,  and  that 
we  might  take  our  bearings  from  these. 

Jimmy  Toppan,  then,  as  now,  a  navi 
gator  of  deep  seas,  was  one  on  whom  the 
compass  argument  had  made  a  profound 
impression.  He  described  an  ingenious 
but  complicated  recipe  (which  had  once 
proved  the  salvation  of  certain  mariners) 
whereby  the  hands  of  a  watch,  —  if 
directed  toward  the  sun,  or  away  from 
the  sun,  I  forget  which,  at  noon,  might 
serve  in  place  of  the  magnetic  needle. 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  289 

But,  as  Rob  Currier  observed,  we  might 
be  hopelessly  lost  long  before  noon,  and  Ed 
Mason  supplemented  this  gloomy  proph 
ecy  by  recalling  the  fact  that  Peter 
Bailey's  Waterbury  watch  (the  only 
time-piece  amongst  us)  was  never  going, 
through  Peter's  constant  neglect  to  spend 
the  fifteen  minutes  necessary  to  wind 
it  up. 

The  plan  for  the  day  had  nearly  fallen 
through,  but  we  finally  decided  to  take  our 
lives  in  our  hands,  and  go  without  a  com 
pass.  Peter,  after  treating  us  to  a  few  sar 
casms  on  our  unscientific  venture,  refused 
absolutely  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
trip.  So  there  were  but  five  of  us  who 
set  out  at  last. 

On  one  thing  we  were  determined. 
This  was  an  all-day  expedition.  The 
necessary  amount  of  exploration,  of  hunt 
ing  and  fishing,  could  not  be  accom 
plished  in  a  few  hours.  We  carried  food 


2 go  The  Believing  Years 

for  three  full  meals,  and  our  families  had 
been  warned  that  they  must  get  along 
without  us  until  night  began  to  gather  in. 

Ed  Mason  had  a  light  air-rifle,  and  Joe 
Carter,  by  virtue  of  his  seniority  and  ex 
perience  (he  was  thirteen  that  week) 
carried  a  small  but  pernicious  revolver. 
The  rest  of  us  had  fishing-poles  and  lines, 
and  I  was  further  equipped  with  a  burn 
ing-glass,  —  without  which  no  one  should 
venture  into  the  wilderness,  where 
matches  may  fail,  and  camp-fires  have 
to  be  kindled. 

We  had  not  gone  far  when  the  suit 
ability  of  breakfast  occurred  to  us.  We 
paused  by  the  road,  —  not  far  from  the 
brickyard  (where  Ed  Mason  had  once 
beaten  off  an  attack  by  tramps)  and  ate 
one  third  of  our  provision. 

Rob  Currier's  box  proved  to  contain, 
among  other  things,  a  couple  of  hard- 
boiled  eggs,  and  to  find  a  third  part  of 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  291 

two  eggs  was  not  only  puzzling,  but  un 
pleasantly  reminiscent  of  Mr.  Colburn's 
Arithmetic,  —  a  book  which  we  did  not 
care  to  have  accompany  us,  even  in  spirit. 

Rob  solved  the  problem  by  eating  both 
eggs  then  and  there. 

A  short  walk  brought  us  to  a  spot  on 
Little  River  where  the  fishing  was  good, 
and  here  Jimmy  Toppan  and  I  promptly 
unlimbered  our  rods.  Ed  Mason  wan 
dered  across  the  meadow  to  look  for 
a  legendary  owl,  which  he  claimed  once 
to  have  seen  in  a  tree  near  the  centre  of 
the  meadow. 

An  owl-haunted  tree  it  certainly  looked, 
but  at  that  hour  of  the  day  there  was 
little  surprise  that  Ed  saw  nothing  of 
him.  The  hunter  soon  returned  to  the 
river  bank,  where  Jimmy  and  I  were 
pulling  in  hornpouts  at  a  great  rate. 

The  others,  scornful  of  hornpouts,  had 
departed  to  a  small  pool,  farther  up  the 


292  The  Believing  Years 

river,  where  nobler  game  was  reported. 
Before  the  end  of  an  hour  they  returned, 
bringing  two  very  small  and  skinny 
pickerel.  Now  your  pickerel,  be  he  ever 
so  meagre,  is  of  course  a  nobler  fish  than 
your  hornpout,  and  there  is  more  glory 
in  his  capture.  So  Joe  Carter  and  Rob 
were  fain  to  look  with  loathing  upon  the 
dozen  fat  hornpouts  which  lay  on  the 
grass,  and  to  consider  that  Jimmy  and 
I  had  spent  our  time  in  but  a  trifling 
fashion. 

Not  content  with  vaunting  the  su 
periority  of  their  two  dusty  pickerel, 
they  reduced  us  to  deeper  humiliation 
by  recounting  their  adventures.  Joe 
Carter  had  lost  bait,  hook,  and  float  from 
his  fishing  tackle,  through  the  agency 
of  the  enormous  turtle  who  had  lived  for 
many  a  year  under  the  bridge  at  the  head 
of  the  pool,  and  Rob  Currier  had  fallen 
into  the  water  and  come  out  wet  to  the 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  293 

knees.  So  it  was  evident  that  there  was 
nothing  for  Jimmy  and  me  but  to  hide  our 
diminished  heads. 

We  said  little,  but  suggested  that  as 
the  morning  was  apparently  far  ad 
vanced,  it  would-be  well  to  have  a  swim 
and  our  midday  meal.  By  the  railroad 
track,  —  a  short  cut,  we  reached  the 
swimming  place,  Four  Rocks.  It  was 
probably  the  poorest  swimming  pool  ever 
prescribed  by  an  iron  tradition.  Passing 
trains  made  it  necessary  modestly  to 
seek  deeper  water,  and  grazing  cows 
threatened  to  devour  our  clothes ;  but 
here,  and  at  no  other  place,  did  every 
boy  learn  to  swim. 

Tradition  is  a  tyrant ;  during  the  be 
lieving  years  it  is  the  worst  of  despots. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  were  all  in  the 
water,  —  all  except  Rob  Currier,  who, 
under  threat  of  dire  punishment,  had  been 
eternally  charged  by  his  mother  to  keep 


294  The  Believing  Years 

out  of  the  water  until  he  was  a  com 
plete  master  of  the  art  of  swimming. 

As  he  had  not  yet  learned  on  land, 
he  sat  on  the  bank,  threw  pebbles  at  the 
cows,  and  from  time  to  time  remarked 
monotonously:  "Oh,  come  on!" 

The  process  of  dressing  was  slow,  — 
the  use  of  towels,  or  any  serious  attempt 
to  dry  oneself,  being  tabooed  as  a  sign 
of  the  most  degrading  effeminacy.  When 
we  were  ready  to  depart,  the  position 
of  the  sun,  and  a  hollow  sensation  in 
our  interiors,  showed  beyond  question 
that  we  must  once  more  draw  upon  our 
commissariat. 

Guided  by  three  gaunt  poplars,  we 
advanced  to  the  Devil's  Den,  —  an  an 
cient  limestone  quarry,  which  had  some 
of  the  appearance,  and  many  of  the 
advantages,  of  a  natural  cave.  Curious 
mineral  substances  were  found  there,  — 
asbestos  might  be  dug  from  the  rock 


While  Me  Evil  Days  Come  Not  295 

with  a  jack-knife,  and  green  veins  of 
serpentine  decorated  the  side  of  the 
cliff. 

It  was  a  recognized  spot  for  picnics, 
and  we  should  have  scarcely  thought  of 
eating  our  principal  meal  anywhere  else. 
In  the  deepest  part  of  the  cleft  was  an 
unwholesome-looking  puddle  into  which 
dripped  the  moisture  from  the  roof  of 
the  cave.  It  was  rather  gloomy,  and 
made  visitors  lower  their  voices  a  little, 
until  they  were  in  the  sunlight  once 
more. 

We  built  a  fire,  —  for  what  purpose  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say,  as  sandwiches, 
cake,  and  fruit  do  not  need  a  great  deal 
of  cooking,  and  the  fish  which  we  had 
captured  had  been  left  with  old  Mr. 
Harris,  the  railroad-crossing  tender,  to 
be  claimed  on  our  return  trip. 

It  was  pleasant,  although  a  trifle  hot 
and  smoky  on  a  warm  day,  to  sit  around 


296  The  Believing  Years 

a  fire  and  refresh  our  wearied  frames 
with  food.  Joe  Carter  had  a  clay  pipe, 
and  after  he  had  eaten,  tried  the  experi 
ment  of  smoking  dried  leaves  in  it.  He 
coughed  a  good  deal,  and  did  not  seem 
to  derive  that  joy  from  the  process  which 
we  had  all  heard  arose  from  the  use  of 
a  pipe. 

After  a  little  time  we  set  out  once  more, 
climbed  to  the  top  of  Devil's  Pulpit, 
and  then  took  the  road  toward  the 
Devil's  Basin.  In  that  region,  the  Devil 
seems  to  have  had  a  large  interest  in  the 
scenery.  The  road  is  of  the  pleasantest, 
however.  Here,  before  the  snow  has 
hardly  left  the  woods,  the  spring  "peepers" 
sing  insistently  from  a  little  bog,  while, 
a  few  weeks  later,  the  gentle  blossoms 
of  the  hepatica  emerge  shyly  from  the 
dead  leaves,  and  the  anemone  springs 
up  on  the  hillside. 

Now,    although    the    tide    of    summer 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  297 

ebbed,  the  woods  were  crammed  with 
things  of  interest.  We  investigated  the 
Basin,  —  another  deserted  quarry.  We 
explored  the  edges  of  the  bog,  and  stalked 
a  flock  of  crows  who  had  gathered  in  the 
top  of  an  oak.  The  afternoon  passed 
at  first  pleasantly,  but  finally  with  some 
tedium,  —  the  day  seemed  interminably 
long.  Yet  we  grudged  every  moment, 
for  we  realized  that  the  hours  of  vaca 
tion  were  numbered. 

We  rambled  about  till  we  became 
aware  that  we  were  very  tired,  that  the 
day  was  waning,  and  that  three  or  four 
long  miles  lay  between  us  and  home. 

So  we  hurried  through  our  suppers, 
and  started  on  the  return  trip.  Joe 
Carter  walked  a  little  in  advance,  calling 
out  from  time  to  time :  — 

"You  fellers  better  hurry  up,  unless 
you  want  to  camp  all  night  in  the  woods." 

Then  he  would  casually  take  out  his 


298  The  Believing  Years 

revolver  and  look  mysteriously  toward 
the  deep  undergrowth  on  each  side  of  the 
road,  as  if  to  signify  that  he  could  not 
hold  himself  responsible  for  what  man 
ner  of  thing  might  beset  us  after  the 
powers  of  darkness  should  be  exalted. 

We  did  not  want  to  camp  all  night  in 
the  woods  (Ed  Mason  and  I  had  not  for 
gotten  a  certain  experience !)  and  we 
hastened  our  steps. 

When  we  reached  Mr.  Harris's  little 
shanty,  it  was  closed  and  locked,  and  the 
old  gentleman  had  gone,  —  whither  we 
knew  not.  Our  fish  he  had  kindly  pre 
served  for  us  in  a  pail  of  water.  We 
gathered  them  up,  and  hurried  on. 

We  debated  what  was  the  exact  hour, 
and  both  Ed  Mason  and  Rob  Currier 
thought  that  sunset  was  close  upon  us. 
Ed  remarked  that  he  had  seen  one  or 
two  bats  fluttering  about,  as  we  came 
through  the  woods.  Evidently  the 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  299 

creatures  of  the  night  were  beginning  to 
make  their  appearance. 

Tired  we  were,  —  we  knew  that,  — 
and  a  little  moody  at  the  thought  of 
approaching  school.  I  had  a  small, 
sharp  pebble  in  my  shoe,  which  made 
walking  very  painful.  So  I  had  to 
delay  the  party  until  I  could  rid  myself 
of  it. 

Finally  we  left  the  railroad  track,  and 
started  on  the  home  stretch  over  the  old 
turnpike.  We  felt  more  at  ease  now, 
since  houses  were  in  plain  sight,  and  the 
town  distant  only  a  matter  of  thirty 
minutes'  walking. 

Here  we  met  a  man  driving  a  sorrel 
horse  in  a  wagon. 

Joe  Carter  hailed  him. 

"Say,  mister,  do  you  know  what  time 
it  is  ?"  asked  Joe. 

The  man  pulled  up  the  horse,  and  took 
a  watch  out  of  his  pocket.  He  looked 


300  The  Believing  Years 

at  the  dial,  and  then  held  the  watch  to 
his  ear. 

"Well,"  he  remarked  leisurely,  "guess 
my  watch  has  stopped  again.  But  I 
can  tell  yer  pretty  close.  It  was  quarter 
to  nine  when  I  came  by  Moulton's,  an' 
that  wa'n't  more'n  fifteen  minutes  ago. 
It's  'bout  nine  o'clock  now,  —  I  guess 
you  young  fellers  better  be  gettin'  home 
pretty  quick,  or  you  won't  get  no  break 
fast!" 


We  all  shouted  at  once. 

The  man  looked  at  us  bewildered. 

"What  are  you  talkin'  about?"  Joe 
Carter  asked  him;  "quarter  of  nine  —  in 
the  evening  ?" 

"Evening  ?"  said  the  man  ;  "you  crazy  ? 
No,  —  quarter  to  nine  in  the  mornin', 
of  course.  What  do  you  —  oh  !  I  see  ! 
Been  spendin'  the  night  in  the  woods,  an' 
got  lost,  ain't  yer  ?" 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  301 

"No,"  Joe  replied ;  "we  been  out 
all  day,  —  we  started  'fore  daylight 
this  morning,  an'  we  thought  it  was 
night." 

The  man  still  stared,  but  gradually 
he  began  to  grasp  the  situation.  His 
mouth  slowly  opened,  a  grin  began  to 
creep  round  to  his  ears,  and  he  cackled. 
Cackled  offensively  and  long. 

We  could  not  stand  that,  and  we 
hurried  along  the  road.  The  man  stood 
up  in  his  wagon,  looking  after  us,  and 
still  uttering  that  idiotic  cackle. 

"Well,  we're  a  lot  of  numb-heads," 
remarked  Rob  Currier. 

Apparently  we  all  agreed,  but  no  one 
said  so.  We  stubbed  along  in  the  dust, 
silent  and  ashamed.  The  fiasco  had 
taken  the  life  out  of  us.  We  did  not 
want  to  go  back  to  the  woods  and  we  did 
not  want  to  return  home.  The  jeers 
that  might  greet  us  there  would  be  worse 


302  The  Believing  Years 

than  the  laughter  of  the  man  in  the 
wagon. 

Out  for  an  all-day  expedition  on  the 
last  day  before  school  opened,  out  for 
a  grand  exploration  of  the  wild  country, 
—  and  we  had  eaten  all  three  of  our  meals 
and  come  home  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning !  What  were  these  bats  and 
night-birds  that  we  had  seen  ?  Where 
was  the  sunset  and  all  the  rest  of 
it  ?  This  last  day  of  vacation  to  be 
spoiled  — 

Suddenly  Joe  Carter  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

His  mouth  opened,  and  then  a  grin 
spread  over  his  face. 

"By  Jings!"  he  shouted. 

We  stopped  and  gazed  at  him. 

Then  he  began  to  jump  about  excitedly 
on  one  leg. 

"Don't  you  see  ?"  he  cried. 

"What?     See  what?" 


While  the  Evil  Days  Come  Not  303 

"Why,  don't  you  see  ?  What  do  we 
care  for  that  old  hayseed  in  the  wagon  ? 
Or  for  any  one  ?  We've  still  got  a  whole 
day  of  vacation  left !" 


/rTvHE  following  pages  contain  advertisements 
of  a  few  of  the  Macmillan  novels. 


BY   E.    B.   DEWING 

OTHER  PEOPLE'S  HOUSES 

Cloth,  ismo,  $1.30 
SOME  OPINIONS  OP  THE  WORK 

"  An  acute  study  —  acute  at  times  to  the  point  of  painfulness  —  of  a  phase 
of  life  especially  aggressive  in  our  own  time,  but  peculiar  to  no  single 
period  .  .  .  there  is  an  underlying  power  in  the  book  that  definitely  con 
veys  a  promise  of  better  things."  —  New  York  Evening  Post. 

"  It  is  a  remarkable  story,  with  plenty  of  ingenuity  in  it,  and  some  start 
ling  developments.  Any  story  so  plainly  out  of  the  beaten  path  deserves 
the  attention  of  the  reading  public." —  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

" '  Other  People's  Houses '  is  a  striking  and  absorbing  study  of  character, 
and  is  an  effective  introduction  to  a  writer  whose  ability  will  doubtless 
place  her  among  the  very  few  American  novelists  of  importance."  — 
New  York  Times. 

BY  MARY  S.  WATTS 

THE  LEGACY 

Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.50 

"  It  is  a  good  story  and  at  the  same  time  good  literature.  Its  plot  is 
handled  with  a  sure  hand,  its  occasional  touches  of  emotion  are  genuine, 
its  spirit  is  wholesome  and  buoyant.  It  belongs  in  the  select  company  of 
the  best  American  novels."  —  Record-Herald. 

"  In  '  Nathan  Burke'  and  in  '  The  Legacy,'  Mrs.  Watts  has  reached  a 
high-water  mark  in  American  fiction,  has  told  two  stories  of  genuine 
Americanism.  Every  page  shows  her  truly  remarkable  gift  of  observa 
tion —  observation  shrewd  but  not  unkind  —  and  her  power  to  probe  the 
hearts  of  weak  and  erring  mortals.  Those  who  would  keep  in  touch  with 
the  best  product  of  story-telling  in  America  must  not  miss '  The  Legacy.'  " 
—  New  York  Globe. 

"  It  is  a  story  exceptionally  well  told,  reaching  and  maintaining  a  rare 
pitch  of  interest."  —  New  York  World. 

"  It  is  a  masterful  novel  throughout,  and  places  the  writer  in  the  very 
highest  rank  of  modern  authors."  —  Salt  Lake  Tribune. 


PUBLISHED    BY 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


MR.  WINSTON    CHURCHILL'S  NOVELS 


Each,  cloth,  gilt  tops  and  titles,  $1.50 


A  Modern  Chronicle  Illustrated 

This,  Mr.  Churchill's  first  great  presentation  of  the  Eternal  Feminine,  is 
throughout  a  profound  study  of  a  fascinating  young  American  woman. 
It  is  frankly  a  modern  love  story. 

"  The  most  thorough  and  artistic  work  the  author  has  yet  turned  out.  A 
very  interesting  story  and  a  faithful  picture  of  character  .  .  .  one  that 
will  give  rise  to  much  discussion."  —  New  York  Sun. 

Mr.  Crewe's  Career  Illustrated 

"  It  is  an  honest  and  fair  story.  ...  It  is  very  interesting;  and  the 
heroine  is  a  type  of  woman  as  fresh,  original,  and  captivating  as  any  that 
has  appeared  in  American  novels  for  a  long  time  past."  —  The  Outlook, 

The  Celebrity    An  Episode 

"  No  such  piece  of  inimitable  comedy  in  a  literary  way  has  appeared  for 
years.  ...  It  is  the  purest,  keenest  fun."  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean, 

Richard  Carvel  Illustrated 

"  In  breadth,  massing  of  dramatic  effect,  depth  of  feeling,  and  rare  whole- 
someness  of  spirit,  it  has  seldom,  if  ever,  been  surpassed  by  an  American 
romance."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

The  Crossing  Illustrated 

"  A  thoroughly  interesting  book,  packed  with  exciting  adventure  and 
sentimental  incident,  yet  faithful  to  historical  fact  both  in  detail  and  in 
spirit."  —  The  Dial. 

The    Crisis  Illustrated 

"  A  charming  love  story  that  never  loses  its  interest.  .  .  .  The  intense 
political  bitterness,  the  intense  patriotism  of  both  parties,  are  shown 
understandingly."  —  Evening  Telegraph,  Philadelphia. 

Coniston  Illustrated 

"  A  lighter,  gayer  spirit  and  a  deeper,  tenderer  touch  than  Mr.  Churchill 
has  ever  achieved  before.  .  .  .  One  of  the  truest  and  finest  transcripts 
of  modern  American  life  thus  far  achieved  in  our  fiction."  —  Chicago 
Record-Herald, 


PUBLISHED    BY 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


IMPORTANT  FICTION 


GERTRUDE   ATHERTON'S 

Tower  of  Ivory  cioth,i2mo,$i.5o 

"  The  '  Tower  of  Ivory  '  provides  the  closest  study  of  certain  phases  of 
English  high  life  at  home  and  abroad  that  has  been  given  us  by  any 
novelist  in  a  great  many  years.  Mrs.  Atherton  has  her  readers 
grappled  to  her  soul  by  some  of  the  most  solid  merits  of  the  novelist  and 
these  she  repays  generously."  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

CLARA   E.   LAUGHLIN'S 

Just    Folks  Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.50 

"  This  work  does  for  readers  of  fiction  the  very  real  service  of  human 
izing  the  slums."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

"  A  most  readable  story,  and  one  that  warms  the  heart  toward  others." 
—  Christian  Advocate,  New  York. 

MABEL   O.   WRIGHT'S 

Princess  Flower  Hat  cloth,  i2mo,$i.5o 

"  The  tale  is  charming,  the  reading  throughout  is  delightful,  and  no 
lover  of  a  garden  will  pass  the  book  unnoticed."  —  San  Francisco 
Call. 

E.   V.   LUCAS' 

Mr.  Ingleside  cioth,  izmo,  $1.35  net 


"  '  Mr.  Ingleside  '  is  a  literary  man's  novel.  The  story  itself  is  the  least 
of  '  Mr.  Ingleside'  ;  it  is  the  way  it  is  told,  the  keen  observation  of  men 
and  things  and  life  in  general,  the  excellent  characterization,  the  drollery 
and  whimsey  that  bring  delight  from  page  to  page.  ...  It  is  rich  with 
allusions  and  memories,  ready  with  knowledge  of  life,  and  quickened 
with  a  love  for  quirks  and  oddities  in  character  wherever  they  are  to  be 
found."  —  Argus,  Albany,  N.Y. 

RICHARD   WASHBURN   CHILD'S 

Jim    Hands  Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.20  net 

"  This  is  an  excellent  story.  It  treats  of  simple  people,  of  a  noble- 
hearted  girl  who  saw  her  duty,  and  of  the  man  she  loved.  There  are 
scenes  of  real  dramatic  power.  The  interest  is  sustained.  The  kind  of 
book  that  works  the  heart  chords  every  now  and  then."  —  News  and 
Courier,  Charleston,  S.C. 

"  Mr.  Child  gives  us  a  novel  of  uncommon  interest,  but  what  marks  it  at 
once  for  attention  is  its  purely  human  quality,  its  knowledge  of  the 
fundamental  traits  of  men  and  women,  its  atmosphere  of  truth  to  daily 
life."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


IMPORTANT  FICTION  —  Continued 


JAMES    LANE   ALLEN'S 

The  Doctor's  Christmas  Eve 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.50 

"  Kentucky  in  its  rural  aspects  and  with  its  noble  men  and  women  forms 
the  scenery  for  this  romance  of  quaintness  and  homeliness  which  lovingly 
interprets  the  career  of  a  country  doctor  who  has  lost  faith  in  life  but  not 
in  ideals.  Incidentally  the  author  has  interpreted  the  new  spirit  of 
American  childhood  in  its  relation  to  the  miracles  and  legends  and  lore 
of  other  lands  and  older  times,  which  have  through  the  centuries  gath 
ered  about  the  great  Christmas  festival  of  the  Nativity."  —  New  York 
Times. 

"  What  so  many  have  so  long  hoped  Mr.  Allen  would  do  he  has  accom 
plished  in  this  work,  namely,  a  description  of  Kentucky  and  the  blue- 
grass  farms  as  seen  by  a  youngster."  —  New  York  A  merican. 

MARY   S.   WATTS* 
Nathan  Burke 

Cloth,  ismo,  $1.50 

"  It  is  sometimes  said  that  one  of  the  best  tests  of  a  good  novel,  as  it  is  of 
a  well-planned  meal,  is  how  you  feel  at  the  end.  Are  you  satisfied  or  do 
you  wish  that  at  some  time  the  performance  may  be  repeated  ?  When 
one  is  through  with  '  Nathan  Burke,'  one  thinks,  I'd  like  to  read  it  right 
over  again." —  Columbia  Dispatch. 

WILLIAM   ALLEN   WHITE'S 
A  Certain  Rich  Man 

Cloth,  ismo,  $1.50 

"  This  novel  has  a  message  for  to-day,  and  for  its  brilliant  character 
drawing,  and  that  gossipy  desultory  style  of  writing  that  stamps  Mr. 
White's  literary  work,  will  earn  a  high  place  in  fiction.  It  is  good  and 
clean  and  provides  a  vacation  from  the  cares  of  the  hour.  It  resembles 
a  Chinese  play,  because  it  begins  with  the  hero's  boyhood,  describes  his 
long,  busy  life,  and  ends  with  his  death.  Its  tone  is  often  religious, 
never  flippant,  and  one  of  its  best  assets  is  its  glowing  descriptions  of 
the  calm,  serene  beauties  of  nature.  Its  moral  is  that  a  magnate  never 
did  any  real  good  with  money."  —  Oregonian,  Portland,  Ore. 


PUBLISHED    BY 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


Mr.   OWEN  WISTER'S  NOVELS 

Members  of  the  Family 


Decorated  doth,  i2mo,  $1.25  net 
"  Thrilling  and  unusual  tales  of  life  on  the  Western  prairies.  Mr.  Wister 
has  shown  himself  a  master  in  this  class  of  fiction."  —  Critic. 

The  Virginian 

Decorated,  cloth,  i2mo,  $1.50  net 

"  The  vanished  West  is  made  to  live  again  by  Owen  Wister  in  a  manner 
which  makes  his  book  easily  the  best  that  deals  with  the  cowboy  and  the 
cattle  country.  ...  It  is  picturesque,  racy,  and  above  all  it  is  original." 
—  The  Philadelphia  Press. 

Lady  Baltimore 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.50 

"  After  cowboy  stories  innumerable,  '  the  Virginian '  came  as  the  last  and 
definite  word  on  that  romantic  subject  in  our  fiction.  '  Lady  Baltimore 
will  serve  in  much  the  same  way  as  the  most  subtly  drawn  picture  of  the 
old-world  diimity  of  the  vanished  South." —  The  New  York  Evening 
Mail. 

Mr.  EDEN  PHILPOTTS'   NOVELS 

Eachy  in  decorated  cloth,  $1.50 

The  American   Prisoner  illustrated 

"  Intensely  readable  .  .  .  perfectly  admirable  in  its  elemental  humor  and 
racy  turns  of  speech." —  The  Spectator,  London. 

The  Secret  Woman 

"  There  cannot  be  two  opinions  as  to  the  interest  and  the  power  of  '  The 
Secret  Woman.'  It  is  not  only  its  author's  masterpiece,  but  it  is  far  in 
advance  of  anything  he  has  yet  written  —  and  that  is  to  give  it  higher 
praise  than  almost  any  other  comparison  with  contemporary  fiction  could 
afford." —  Times  Saturday  Review. 

Knock  at  a  Venture 

Sketches  of  the  rus 
touches. 

The  Portreeve 


Sketches  of  the  rustic  life  of  Devon,  rich  in  racy,  quaint,  and  humorous 
touches. 


PUBLISHED    BY 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


RETURN 


CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

198  Main  Stacks 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS. 

Renewls  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling  642-3405. 

DUE  AS  STAMpED  BELOW 


JUN  2  5  1999 


FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY  CA  94720-6000 


ye  an 


_ 


223138 


